Bow Chicka Bow Wow
by CabooseHeart
Summary: A collection of slash/oddball stories involving the Blood Gulch Crew to the Freelancers all the way to Chorus! I take requests, so don't be afraid to ask for anything! Stories will mainly feature Wash probably, but others too!
1. Secretive (Infatilism Mentioned)

**Bow Chicka Bow Wow**

**Chapter 1: Secretive**

**Warning(s): Slightly Referenced Infantilism, Non-Consensual Moments, Diapering of an Adult, Urinating, Shitting, Very Mild Sexual Content, etc.**

**Description: In Project Freelancer, things just go wrong at times; in Washington's case, a knife hit in the worst spots in his lower abdomen, taking away his ability to hold himself in any way urination/shitting-wise. As it turns out, he tries to hide it from the Reds and Blues once he reaches them, but after the Meta is killed, only Doc knows. But after Doc disappears, the Reds and Blues step in, hoping to find a way to help their recruited Freelancer.**

**A/N: So, here's the beginning of a series that I've been dying to try out; this collection will feature alot of M rated stories I've wanted to try my hand at, and yes, a bit of it will be quite vulgar and even a bit of non-con at times, but I'll have warnings up for each chapter. Each chapter is a different story, or a sequel to one; I'll be taking requests, though the pairings are wild and unlimited right now; this is made for experimenting and trying whacky stuff that I'd never do on AO3 (My sisters see that one, which is why I'm putting it here). I already feel dirty for writing this, and I've only written the description and warnings so far! Also, please note, that this is a side-account to Supercasey, so that I can insure my family won't see this stuff!**

* * *

Secretive.

Wash was always a secretive person; whether it was changing in the bathroom stalls of the boy's locker room in high school to hide his thin body, or going out of his way to hide an infection on the MOI, he kept everything to himself. It had never really been a weakness as much as it was a hassle, but that wasn't exactly on his mind as he fought the Insurrectionists in hand-to-hand combat. The agent was nervous as all Hell, swishing and dodging more than fighting really; he knew he was bad at hand-to-hand combat, he was the worst of his squad, and he was really not enjoying his little 'dance' with a certain Insurrectionist who had a thing for knives.

The grey and yellow soldier flipped backwards, barely dodging a knife slash aimed for his throat; the man was quick to try and out maneuver the young woman he was fighting, but she was stronger and faster than she looked. Sweat dripped down his back with each sidestep he made, with every movement really, and the pain was finally catching up to Washington; a nasty gash in his leg reminded him of how much blood he was already losing thanks to the woman he fought against. With a gulp, he jumped back, turning on the com-frequency he had with his fellow Freelancers. Washington switched it to voice-text, barely missing a throwing star; what was this lady, a ninja!?

"Come in, can anyone read me? This is Agent Washington, I need evac as soon as possible; I'm pinned down over here!" Washington explained, almost managing to land a punch on the Insurrectionist. "Dammit, can anyone read me?"

All Wash got was static; as if on cue, the Insurrectionist pinned him on the ground, no doubt grinning at him from behind her helmet. "Say goodnight, kid." She growled, jamming her knife in and out of his lower abdominal.

He screamed on instinct, yelping even louder when the woman was gone, now replaced by a very panicked Carolina, who was trying to stop the bleeding. "Goddammit... York, Wash is down, I repeat, Wash is down!" She screamed over the intercom, hands still pushing on the opened gashes. "Hold on, Wash; just hang in there."

Washington nodded, making everything around him seem to spin; the man groaned, attempting to roll over, but Carolina would have none of it. "Don't you close your eyes on me, Wash! 479er, this is Agent Carolina; do you read me, over?"

Just as the Pelican arrived, Washington blacked out, his last memory being Agent Maine carrying him bridal style into the back of the ship, locking him into one of the backseats.

* * *

It really started alot later; by alot later, we of course mean when Doc was captured by Washington and the Meta. Right away, Doc knew something was up; it was an unspoken tension in the air, the calm before an impending storm, an unease that echoed through the canyon. This had only increased after Simmons took off, and more or less left Doc for dead, impaled into a stone wall on top of Blue Base. Doc watched from afar, seeing how Wash flinched with every touch the Meta set on him; he also saw Wash run off with the Meta alot, but every time they returned about ten to thirteen minutes later, Wash would be just a tad more relaxed. At first, Doc thought they were an item, but that quickly changed.

It started with a bad smell, and Doc knew it wasn't him for sure; he had been allowed to go a few minutes prior (You don't wanna know how). He looked around, sniffing the air, wrinkling his nose at the scent of piss and shit. "Woo-we, what's that smell?" He asked, coughing loudly in his helmet.

Washington openly tensed, looking at his feet at once. "Uh... dunno, I don't smell anything."

"Are you nuts? It smells like Junior!" Doc explained; he would've thrown his hands up as he spoke for extra enthusiasm, but he was, you know, stuck in a fucking wall. "Are you sure you can't smell anything?"

Wash only got more nervous, shifting awkwardly. "I... well, ya know, I don't have a great sense of smell." He lied, hoping the excuse would work. "But, I'm sure it's really nothing, just... ignore it."

"Alright, I'll try, but it'll be hard." Doc stated, sighing internally.

That broke a nerve.

"I'm sorry, alright!?" Wash suddenly shouted, facing Doc, dropping his gun and kicking it away from himself in fear. "I'm so sorry, I-I... I'm sorry..."

"Wash, are you-" Doc was cut off as the Meta overheard, jumping onto the roof of the base, facing Washington carefully, placing both of his hands on either of Wash's shoulders, keeping him steady. "Meta, is he gonna be okay?"

The Meta didn't even look at Doc, too busy guiding Wash off of the roof, and back into the base. "Hey, aren't you gonna tell me what's up?" Doc yelled, but was ignored. He sighed, almost going limp on the wall. "Well that was weird... hey, that smell's finally gone! ...wait a minute..."

* * *

Days passed, and Washington recovered as well as he could; the surgery to completely fix the damage done could easily kill him, so, on the Director's orders, he was forced to deal with, as he put it, 'The consequences of your actions'. Well, those consequences were far worse than Wash had expected; at first, when he had ended up pissing himself during training, he laughed it off and figured he had drank too much water that day. However, the fourth or fifth time finally forced Wash to realize that it was, indeed, not just another 'accident'. He kept to himself for a long time, avoiding the other Freelancers as much as possible, hoping no one would notice his sudden disappearances.

But that was about to change.

A knock to Wash's bedroom door made him jolt, but he didn't answer, too busy sitting on the toilet to go see who it was; he had come to sitting on the toilet for hours after training, keeping himself busy with his phone or computer; it was a hard life, but he figured it was better than pissing himself (Or shitting himself) around the others. They'd call him a freak, a nutcase; they'd never talk to him or see him as a regular human being ever again. The door eventually opened, and Wash almost yelled for the person to leave, but multiple pairs of footsteps made him halt, swallowing in fear; it wasn't just one of his friends, there were at least three to four of them in his room, looking for him.

"Wash, you in here? We're here for an intervention!" York yelled, looking around the messy bedroom, unable to find the other Freelancer. "Come on, it's just me, 'Lina, North, Maine, 'n Connie!"

"It's C.T." Connie corrected, crossing her arms as she looked around, hazel eyes full of concern. "Where the fuck is Wash? I thought Wyoming said he'd be in here after training."

Carolina nodded, looking to the closed bathroom door with suspicion. "Wash? You in there? Come on out, we're not here to judge you or make fun of you; whatever is going on has been keeping you from hanging out with your friends."

"You sure he's home?" North inquired.

Maine rumbled an almost audible 'yes' as a reply, knocking on the bathroom door.

"Uh... just get outta here, I'll be out in a bit!" Washington finally called out, hoping the others would just leave before anyone found out about his secret. "Just... just a bit constipated."

"You're lying." Connie claimed, joining Maine in front of the door. "I hate to break it to ya, but you've been anything but constipated, Wash. Remember last Friday, or even Thursday? Just come out, we're here to help you!"

"I don't need help." Washington replied, cringing at the weakness that resided in his voice. "Look, I'll be out soon, just-"

Maine had, apparently, decided that this was getting nowhere, and opened and shut the door after entering at light speed. The other Freelancer stopped dead in his tracks, giving Wash a quick once over; Wash had deep bags under his eyes, his skin was a sickly pale, and he looked almost like a dying old man while sitting on the toilet. Washington stared at Maine, eyes impossibly wide as he scanned his face for even the smallest bit of what he feared; hatred, anger, distaste, disappointment... Wash had expected the worse. He yelped suddenly though as Maine strode forward, crouching in front of the much shorter and younger Freelancer; he was ready to just listen to him and talk about it.

There was a soft growl, more or less saying 'get explaining', or something of that nature.

"Well... it's not my fault, I don't think so at least... I keep losing control of myself, and not breakdowns or anything, just... I keep wetting myself, even on missions it's happened, and I can't stop it. I even shitted myself last night! I'm not sure what's going on or what to do but... just please, if you're gonna punch me or tell me to go kill myself, do it now." Washington braced himself, ready for a hit or a slap or a punch of any sort; he seemed like a kid, scared to be hurt by an upset parent or guardian.

There wasn't a reply for a long time; Maine eventually nodded, letting out a soft, comforting purr to tell Wash that it was fine. Washington smiled, almost sobbing as he collapsed into Maine's arms, letting the older Freelancer hold him close.

Meanwhile; North, Carolina, Connie, and York had heard everything. They all exchanged looks, unknowing of how to react or what to even do for their friend.

"What do we do?" Connie asked, leaning on the wall as she stared at her bare feet. "I mean, I was ready to hear he was really sick or that he missed his grandmother, not... not this."

"I don't think anyone was, Connie." York agreed, taking a seat on Washington's bed, running his fingers through his messy hair. "I mean... should we tell the Director or anything like that?"

North shook his head, frowning at the bathroom with pity. "No; if more people find out, it'll only make Wash feel worse about it. The last thing he needs is attention drawn to his little... problem."

"Well, we need to do something." Carolina said, glaring at the floor as she took a seat next to York, arms crossed and shoulders stiff. "We're his friends, and we know he'd help us if we were in his situation."

York suddenly stopped, looking up as he snapped his fingers. "I've got it!" He announced, standing up as he snagged his laptop out of his messenger bag, turning it on and looking something up.

Carolina leaned over, furrowing her brow at what was on the screen. "Adult diapers?"

Connie would've spat out her drink had she been drinking anything. "Are you serious, York?"

"What else can we do?" North asked, tapping his feet as he sat on the other side of York, gazing at the computer.

Connie sighed, standing on the other side of the bed in order to see the computer screen. "Well, we all know he won't go for it, even if we try to explain everything to him." She noted, frowning at York's laptop. "Besides, is this even necessary? What if it's just stress wetting?"

"Stress wetting doesn't make people shit themselves, last time I checked." Carolina explained, sighing sadly. "But I agree; Wash isn't gonna cooperate if we just ask him to, he'll say he's fine like he always does."

York was quiet, halting his internet search to sigh deeply, almost as if he didn't want to speak, but needed to. "As much as I hate to admit it, we need to talk to the Director about this one."

"How will that help?" North questioned, crossing his arms at the shorter man.

"The Director can make Wash listen, since it's obvious he won't listen to us about it." York explained, finally finishing up on the computer and shutting it down. "Done; stuff'll be here by tomorrow morning."

Carolina stared at York, dumbfounded. "... How can you order shit online when we're in space?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

York rolled his only good eye, grinning at Carolina. "Oh come on, 'Lina. We're docking on a planet in four hours, it's not as hard as you'd think."

North nodded, looking to the bathroom with worry filled eyes. "God... I just hope Wash listens."

"When has he?" Connie asked, sighing as she re-crossed her arms. "This won't end well."

"You know, nothing ever does." York pointed out, to which everyone nodded in agreement.

* * *

A month and a half later, Agent Washington was seated beside Doc in one of the two Warthogs leading the Reds and Blues home to Blood Gulch; the ride was horribly tense, no one daring to say a damned thing. Grif was driving; he was actually going pretty slow, if only to keep anyone from freaking out. Simmons rode shotgun; he twiddled his thumbs and tried not to look back at the man who shot Donut in cold blood. Sarge tried to start up a conversation a few times, but was met by several shushes and mild glares. Doc sat loyally beside Wash, occasionally whispering things into his ear; everyone was without their helmets, making it almost feel... surreal, if only a bit.

The biggest thing that threw the Reds and Blues off was Wash, who looked far younger than they had expected; he had short, blonde hair, along with stormy grey/blue eyes that challenged Sarge's own icy blue pair. But no one spoke a word, except maybe the Blues; the Blue's car was driving at a slow pace behind the Red's vehicle, with Tucker driving while Caboose slept in the backseat; the only reason Wash and Doc were riding with the Reds was to avoid waking the youngest Blue Team member, who had been unusually quiet after Church, er, _Epsilon_ left into the memory unit. Suddenly, Washington grimaced, looking to Doc with worried eyes, looking close to tears.

Doc nodded, turning to Grif. "Hey, Grif, can we stop for a second?"

"Seriously, dude? If you didn't notice, we're trying to _avoid_ getting caught by Command and getting back to Blood Gulch in one fucking piece." Grif replied, but made a gagging sound as a terrible smell entered the air. "Shit, man! What the fuck, did someone seriously shit themselves in the car!?" He stood up after parking the car, looking at the Blue's vehicle with suspicion. "Dude, did Caboose go again?" He asked, having to yell to be heard over the thunder storm a few miles away.

"Dude, he went, like, two hours ago!" Tucker yelled, hoping Caboose wouldn't hear him. "What's wrong? Did someone shit themselves?"

"We don't know yet!" Simmons screamed; no one but Sarge and Doc noticed Washington flinch, attempting to curl in on himself from hearing how upset the Reds and Blues were. "Check him to be sure, we'll see if an animal left us a 'gift' somewhere in the car!"

Tucker gave them a thumbs up, easily waking Caboose and leading him away from the road, into the forest. "We're gonna go while you guys check the car." Doc said, taking Washington's hand and leading him away from the Warthog.

Sarge, however, saw past the lie in an instant. He didn't say a word though, waiting for Doc and Wash to disappear before he stood, motioning for Grif and Simmons to follow him into the woods, careful to not alarm Washington or Doc. Once hidden, they watched as Doc had Wash lay down in a tiny clearing; Wash was tense, laying down on a towel while removing his armor, the stench getting worse. "Dude, did Wash cr-" Grif was cut off as Simmons slapped a hand over his mouth, shushing him.

"Shut the fuck up!" Simmons whispered, glaring at the Hawaiian angrily. "Just wait."

After Grif went quiet again, they continued watching; Doc gently coaxed Washington into taking off his under-armor, showing a now yellow and brown stained adult diaper around his rear and privates, making the Reds hold in a gasp. Doc sighed, seeing Wash grimace at the sight. "Told you to wear the heavy-duty ones for the fight." Doc said, sanitizing his hands as he grabbed baby wipes from his medical kit, along with another adult diaper. "Don't worry, I can help you out."

"I can do it myself." Wash stated, reaching for the wipes, but he was stopped as Doc forced him to lay back down.

"You never get yourself clean enough; you got sick last time you changed yourself." Doc explained, opening the dirty diaper with Wash's help, reeling back from the stench it emitted. "Dang, Wash! Had to eat those rations when Meta warned you they were bad, didn't you?"

"I hadn't eaten in days!" Washington yelled back, glaring at Doc, shuffling uncomfortably as the other man changed him. "Not my fault we were running out of food..."

Doc sighed, shaking his head. "Just hold still, this'll only take a minute..."

Simmons looked away, focusing his gaze on Grif. "Why the fuck is Wash in a diaper? I mean... are Freelancers not toilet trained or some freaky-ass shit? You'd think they'd know how..."

Grif shrugged, turning to simply face Simmons instead of Doc and Washington. "I dunno; I think Tex knew how... pretty sure we'd hear alot more complaining from Church if she didn't."

"Both of ya shut up." Sarge whispered, glaring at the two men. "It ain't that he doesn't know how; see them scars on his abdominal?" He pointed at the scars on Wash's chest, to which Simmons and Grif nodded. "He might not be able to control it, that's all."

"Wait, so you're saying he has to wear diapers, even if he doesn't want to?" Grif inquired.

Sarge nodded, looking at Wash with pity.

"Dude... that's fucked up." Grif stated, frowning at the Freelancer. "Like, I knew Washington was kind of a douchebag and all, but I don't think anyone fucking deserves that."

"Yeah..." Simmons agreed, looking down at the grass covered ground with shame. "Let's not tell him about this."

They all nodded, and for a while, it was quiet, until Grif finally spoke up again. "... I wonder what they're like?"

Simmons's eyes widened as he swerved around, staring at Grif. "You can't be fucking serious?"

"Why not? I'm just wondering, man." Grif said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Is it so bad to wonder things? I mean, we ask why we're here every fucking day; wondering what a diaper feels like can't be so bad, right?"

"I thought I told you two to shut up." Sarge whispered, a dangerous edge in his voice. "Now quit yer yammerin' 'n let's go."

"Wait, we're leaving?" Grif asked, just as Wash pinned it on, letting out a sad sigh as he did so. "We're not gonna say anything?"

Sarge shook his head. "Let it be, Grif; as much as I'd like to say somethin' to at least Doc, it's not our place to do so."

"Guess you're right..." Simmons agreed, following Sarge and Grif out of the forest.

"I still wonder though..."

"Shut the fuck up, Grif!"

* * *

After the whole 'intervention' thing, everything quieted down that day for Washington, which he thought was odd, considering that he knew Carolina, Connie, North, and York had overheard his explanation to Maine; he had expected them to say something to him or tease him, but when Maine finally convinced him to leave the bathroom, they had all left. For the rest of the day, Wash made a point of avoiding everyone but Maine, who he kept next to for everything, including training, which once again ended in an emergency trip to his room. This was getting ridiculous, and Wash had had enough, but he was still worried about going to see any of the on-board doctors about it.

Maine had growled about it being a good idea to seek help, but Wash was still attempting to avoid too much attention being drawn to the matter, seeing as it was kind of a more 'personal' predicament. But still, Wash went to bed that night with a worried mind, a towel under himself, and a frown on his face; he just wanted this nightmare to end before it got any worse, little did he know, it would get at least a bit better soon enough. The next morning, Wash hopped outta bed, dressed in civvies (It was his day off); grey sweatpants, a yellow T-shirt reading 'Seattle' in grey lettering, red converse, and a beanie hat. He yawned as he heard a knock at his bedroom door, and was shocked to see the Counselor standing there.

"Oh, hello sir!" Wash said, saluting to the older man.

The Counselor nodded, smiling that almost too warm smile at Wash. "Good morning, Agent Washington. I trust you slept well?"

Wash was tempted to tell the Counselor about his nightmares, about all the bed-wetting that had been going on; the Counselor was said to have two daughters of his own, surely he of all people would understand? But he didn't say that, he only shrugged. "I see... well, the Director would like to see you now."

"What for?" Wash couldn't help but ask, giving the Counselor a worried look.

"It is not my place to say, Agent. I'll be seeing you now." With that, the Counselor walked away, acting as if he was just having a completely normal day at home, rather than living on a government owned spaceship.

Wash scratched his head, frowning at the Counselor's back as he disappeared down a hallway, leaving him with little peace. Now, what would the Director need at this time of day, especially on his day off?

* * *

After that, the Reds made a point to not bother Washington, especially when Doc left to go bury Donut in Valhalla; they had seen how worried Wash was to see the medical officer leave, and didn't say a word to him about it. Meanwhile at Blue Base, after Doc took off, Tucker began to notice a sizable difference in Washington's behavior. Before he had been alot more stoic, making a point to seem like a deadly badass, but that had changed after Doc took off without him, leaving Wash by himself. The Freelancer had then kept to himself, which Tucker sort of understood; Doc had been Wash's only friend among the Reds and Blues, and it was hard to see him go, leaving him with a bunch of strangers.

But things got worse; Doc didn't come back in a week like he promised, and the Reds and Blues chose to believe he had just gotten lost or was running a bit late. Two weeks had passed and they thought it odd that Doc was unheard from; three weeks and they decided he was dead. Wash kept a higher distance, staying in Church's old room for hours a day, only coming out if Caboose knocked hard enough for him to. Even then, Wash would be tense, constantly shifting in his new armor, which he refused to remove; Tucker figured he was just shy or some shit, nothing to really worry about. So, Tucker let a sleeping bear lie, not daring to press for information from Washington, however, that only stayed for about a month.

Finally, Tucker had had enough.

"Yo, Wash."

Washington glanced up from his seat beside Caboose on the couch; the younger Blue had convinced Wash to watch Spongebob or some shit with him, and since Caboose had fallen asleep, Tucker saw his chance to get answers out of Wash. "You've been pretty quiet lately." Tucker pointed out, leaning over the back of the couch to gaze at Wash. "Kinda distant even."

"Just getting used to Blood Gulch." Wash stated, trying to ignore Tucker, but that wasn't about to happen; why did Caboose have to fall asleep? At least when Caboose was awake, no one questioned him. "It's alot different then the MOI."

"MOI?" Tucker inquired, giving Wash an odd look.

"Mother of Invention." Washington filled in, shrugging as he laid back on the couch.

Tucker nodded. "Tex used to talk about that ship; said it was her home."

"She never treated it like home." Wash said, glaring now at the TV, which Tucker suddenly turned off. "What is it you need from me, Private Tucker?"

"Some answers; why're you so fucking distant from us? Like, I kinda understood it when Doc died, er, disappeared. But, dude, even Tex didn't get this fucking bad around us, and she spent hours in her room when her and Church fought!"

Wash growled under his breath. "Tex... she never did know when to stop challenging Carolina, to just stop trying to pick a fight with everyone... she's why Project Freelancer went to shit."

Tucker sighed dramatically, going limp on the couch. "Dude! You are so fucking dramatic, don't you ever smile?"

Wash tried to make a smile, but it only looked creepy; he stopped, glaring at Tucker. "I'm just saying what happened from my point of view, Tucker; sorry if my version is a little too depressing for you."

"Hey, why don't you just cut it out, okay? Quit avoiding the subject; why're you avoiding me and the Reds? The Reds I can understand, 'cus they're assholes... actually, Grif ain't that bad, and Simmons is annoying, but he's pretty cool sometimes... fuck it, just please answer my damn question!" Tucker demanded, glaring at the taller man angrily.

"Tucker? Washingtub?"

_Fuck._

"Yeah, Caboose?" Washington asked, almost smiling as relief washed over him; he was safe for awhile. "What's wrong, buddy?"

Caboose yawned, sitting up as he rubbed at his light blue eyes. "What're you and Tucker talking about, Wash?"

Washington shrugged, almost wanting to grin at Tucker, but figured that Tucker didn't deserve it; his questions were understandable, but Wash just wasn't willing to answer them quite yet. "Oh, nothing; Tucker just wants me to spend more time with you guys is all."

"Yeah," Tucker added, almost glaring at the smug bastard that was Agent Washington. "I just wanted Wash here to help me answer a few _questions_ that I can't _figure out_, but since you and him are gonna hang out, I'll ask later; I'm sure Wash _will_ answer them for me _sooner_ or later."

"I hope so too." Wash stated more than said, smiling a bit at Caboose, who beamed right back. "So, what're we gonna do now, Caboose?"

Caboose seemed to think it over. "How about we make a cake for the Reds!"

Wash wanted to sigh; kitchens and him had a very bad history according to his grandmother, and he really didn't want Caboose to set his hair on fire again, but he saw no alternative. "Alright, Caboose. But this time, let me set the stove."

Tucker walked away as Wash and Caboose headed to the kitchen, silently deciding that he'd ask the Reds what was up; they'd rode with Wash and Doc on the way here, right? They might know what was up...

* * *

"You can't be _serious_!?"

Washington wasn't typically a yelling type of person; only when he was outraged or scared did he reach that high of an octave, but this was one of those 'horribly outraged' moments that kept Wash from being able to calm down. He glared at the Director, something he never dared to do, especially out of armor (He was convinced that the Director had cameras in their helmets to tell when they made faces at him or glared at him). The blonde man backed up though as the Director took a step towards him, glare strong and powerful. He gulped, unable to hide his nervousness from the powerful man that was the Director, who he wanted to believe looked smug about this whole ordeal.

"I believe I am, Agent Washington; it has come to my attention that your injuries from your last mission were far worse than our doctors predicted, and from the suggestion of your fellow teammates-"

"-_York_." Wash growled under his breath, glaring heated at the brunet, who ducked behind Carolina, waving shyly at Washington.

"-You will be wearing adult diapers until we can find a better solution." The Director finished, making Wash want to faint as he saw a box beside the man, making his heart drop into his stomach.

Wash backed up a step again, breathing heavily and slowly; this wasn't happening, it had to be nothing but a terribly cruel joke, surely the Director was kidding around with him, right? Yes, he had to be; it was just York and Wyoming teasing probably, although, Wash would be disappointed in York if he had told the Brit about Wash's incidents without permission; really, after this, Wash was going to kill the damned locksmith. "Sir, can't we just talk this over; I'm sure there are other soluti-" Wash was cut off.

"Agent Washington!" The Director shouted, making everyone straighten at attention. "I have discussed it with our surgeons and it has been confirmed that the surgery to reattach the correct cords in your abdominal could cost you too much blood and would ultimately kill you. Now then, would you rather risk your life for an almost certain death operation, or simply deal with a far less deadly solution?"

Wash stared at the Director, closing his fists and reopening them over and over, looking to the others; Wyoming, Carolina, York, Connie, Maine, North, South, and Florida refused to look at him. Some out of pity, some out of anger, some out of acceptance; it made Washington want to puke, or die, the later was a tad more preferable at this point. He shuffled a bit where he stood, refusing to look the Director in the eyes; was he really about to agree to this bullshit, surely there was another option, but knowing the Director, he wanted this to serve as a punishment for failing during his last mission. Wash just wanted to go back in time and kill that knife throwing bitch, but he couldn't do that, now could he?

"Fine." Washington agreed, crossing his arms stubbornly. "But I'm changing myself, sir."

"I'd hope so." The Director said, nodding as he started to leave the room. "You're all dismissed; and Agents, if I hear anything involving abusing Agent Washington about his current issue, I will not react as well as you'd hope." With that, he was gone.

_"Well, at least he's looking out for me."_ Washington thought grimly, glaring at the box on the floor with an evil glare. "I can't believe any of this." He said sadly, watching as a few Freelancers were already leaving, while a few stuck around.

"It won't be all that bad, lad." Wyoming assured Wash, patting him on the shoulder as he passed by, leaving him in peace.

Florida stuck around, smiling at Wash in a very friendly manner, to which Wash was almost sickened by; he didn't want reassurance or a pat on the back, he wanted a damned cure. "You know, if you ever need any help changing, you can ask-"

Wash pointedly glared at Florida, picked up the box, and stormed off. "Thanks but no thanks, Florida." He muttered, leaving to spend the rest of his day off in the peace and comfort of his bedroom.

Everything could be fine though now; everything would just go by as normal, Wash knew it could soon enough. But even so, his mind was worried about so many things, namely about how he was going to adjust with the newest change. But it would fine, he assured himself, it would all be fine.

It just had to be.

* * *

"Wash is acting weird?"

Tucker wanted to slap himself in face from Simmons's response, instead he simply sighed, shaking his head at the much taller man, the second tallest in the canyon with Caboose as the tallest. "Yeah, of course he's acting weird! Haven't you noticed how he avoids you guys?"

"I'd hope he'd be avoiding us." Grif said, yawning loudly. "I mean, we kinda shoot at him when we see him... so you'd sorta fucking expect it."

"Still, even I talk to you guys sometimes, and so does Caboose; Wash refuses to even leave the base half the time, and I'm sick of it!" Tucker yelled, crossing his arms as he glared at the ground. "I mean, he's a pretty cool dude, but... he keeps locking himself in his room..."

Simmons and Grif exchanged a look, making Tucker squint his eyes at them. "Oh man, you fuckers know what's going on, don't you?" He accused, turning to Grif. "Come on, man; we're sorta friends, you can tell me what's up."

"It's not our place to say..." Simmons said, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. "I mean... we didn't even mean to find out, we only followed Doc and Wash and then boom, we-" Grif slapped a hand over Simmons's mouth, shutting him up.

Now Tucker had really had it. "Seriously, guys! He's my fucking teammate, as weird as it still is, I gotta know what's up with him!" He said, then calmed himself down; he rarely got so pissed off, but dealing with Washington along with Caboose was getting to him more and more with each day. "Just... cut me some slack, guys."

With another exchanged look, Grif sighed dramatically, deciding he'd take the fall for it. "Alright, so, don't fucking tell Wash we know or tell Sarge we told, but... okay, this is gonna be fucking weird to explain properly, but Wash is wearing diapers."

Tucker went silent, staring at the Reds with wide eyes.

"Way to ease it down for him, Grif." Simmons muttered, glaring at said orange soldier.

Grif rolled his eyes. "I did better than you would've done."

"No; you make it sound like Wash actually likes wearing them, you retard! Sarge said it was because of the scars on his abdominal, you didn't even explain that part!" Simmons yelled, waving his arms in the air. "Next time, let me explain!"

"I thought we agreed if we ever talked about it, I'd explain?" Grif said, frowning at Simmons in the poorly lit cave; the Reds had only agreed to meet with Tucker in the caves because it would be way outta rang from Sarge and the other Blues at Blue Base.

"No, we agreed you were a fatass." Simmons said, smirking at the slightly shorter man.

Tucker still stood there, dumbfounded. "Wait... so, can he not control it or some shit?" But he got no response; Grif and Simmons were too busy arguing. Tucker sighed, walking away. "Part of me wants you two to just shut up, the other wants you to shut up and kiss already; fuck it, I'll find out myself. Bye, bitches!"

Thankfully, Grif caught that last bit. "Bye, Bluetard!"

"You're gonna die alone!"

"You're gonna die a virgin!"

"Your sister takes it up the ass!"

"I hope Wash sees your internet history!"

No one can deny that Grif and Tucker were good friends.

* * *

"It's not all that bad." York said, smiling at Washington hopefully; he had been sitting with the younger Freelancer alone for the last three hours, and those hours had been spent watching TV in the lounge and just talking really. "I mean, you could've gone blind."

"Not all that bad? Are you kidding me, this sucks! I'm never going to be taken seriously again!" Wash yelled, dramatically flailing to lay on the couch, glaring at the ceiling evilly; he could barely see Florida and Wyoming hanging out together in the rafters, probably drinking tea together and exchanging war stories. "I'll be surprised if South ever looks at me with a straight face after all of this."

"Oh come on, North said he talked to her about it. Besides, the Director will kill anyone who fucks with you about it, he honestly has your back on this one." York explained, smiling down at the over-dramatic man.

Wash rolled his eyes. "Yeah right, this is all a punishment from the Director for failing on that mission, I just fucking know it."

York nodded, relaxing into the couch. "Hey, I'm just saying, it could've been way worse; would you rather be dead right now, Wash?"

"I've considered it." Washington admitted, sighing to himself. "It's just... nothing will ever be the same for me anymore. Yeah, I'll maybe get used to it one day, but do you really think I'll find anyone who will love me after PFL? And that's just suggesting I'd survive that long. But say I do; who would love a grown man in diapers?"

York shrugged, wrapping an arm around the younger man, ignoring the way his friend's pants crinkled on the couch. "I'm here for ya, man. And hey, when this is all over, I'll set you up with someone. Hell, maybe you can marry CT!"

Wash looked away, eyes downcast. "... or Maine." He suggested.

York sat up, surprised by Wash's response. "Whoa, really?"

"Yeah, got a problem with that?" Wash inquired, almost wanting to crack a joke at York about it, but he wasn't in the mood.

"No, just... didn't know you swung that way, man." York said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "But hey, I ain't judging, Maine seems... nice? I dunno, I haven't known him for as long as you have, Wash."

Wash smiled at Maine, watching the SPARTAN turn to him, waving. Wash waved back, smiling all the while, forgetting his problems. "Well... he's a great guy, once you really get to know him better."

"Um... Wash?" York asked, scooting away.

"What?" Wash asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh..." York pointed at Wash's pants, still scooting away.

"What... aw fuck!"

* * *

Washington noticed something was up about five days later, when he noticed something off. He always seemed to wet himself in the night, but recently, he had been waking up dry; it just wasn't right in a way. He wanted to be happy about it, but he knew that something was up; everyday he'd wake up to find a different diaper on, as strange as it was, and his mind always came up with twenty or so different, terrible scenarios. Still, he had finally decided to find out how this was happening. That day, Wash slipped out of Blue Base without a word; Tucker didn't even stop him, just smiled and nodded at Wash, which he found odd, considering how suspicious Tucker had been of him when he first came to Blood Gulch.

He ignored it though, opting to just hurry on off to the caves underneath Blood Gulch, where he knew a large amount of high tech computers were; how did he know this? Well, unlike most people, he actually listened to Simmons when he went on about things. The Freelancer was quick to scale through the winding tunnels of the caves, unable to hide his child-like excitement at the amazing sights inside; why the Reds and Blues didn't use the caves more often, he'd never know. After only a few more minutes, Washington reached the computers that monitored the two bases, quickly finding the feed from the last five days of his bedroom in Blue Base; he'd find out what was going on in no time.

The feed soon played, and Wash managed to find the volume, turning it on to watch the video feed from Monday; it was around two in the morning, and he could see himself rolling around uncomfortably, either from nightmares or needing to clean up after himself. Suddenly, light flooded into the room from his door opening, producing a strong figure as they walked in, lazily carrying a bag over their shoulder. Wash looked closer, barely able to make out long, coiled hair hanging down in a ponytail, as well as very dark skin; the shadow wore a teal T-shirt, as well as black boxers. It had to be Tucker, as horrible as that thought was for Washington, he couldn't deny that it was him; there were no other African American's in the canyon as far as he knew.

"Alright, man; let's hope you're not too different from Junior." Tucker mumbled in the video to himself, kneeling in front of the sleeping version of Wash. "Grif better not have been lying, or he's a dead man."

Grif? What did Grif of all people have to do with anything?

Before Washington could question it any further though, Tucker was already cleaning him up in the video, much to his utter embarrassment. No one had ever changed him, well, on occasion, the Freelancers would be forced to if he had been KO'd in battle, but no one ever mentioned it much or teased him for it; Hell, not even South jacked with him about that. He shook his head, refocusing as the video ended with Tucker finishing and leaving, the video feed ending there. Wash sighed, staring at the floor as he shook his head. So, if Tucker had mentioned that Grif knew too, then that would have to include Simmons, which would also bring in Sarge, who would... yeah, all of Red Team had to know by then.

But, as long as no one mentioned it, it would be fine, right? Of course it would be, right... who was he kidding? Washington was a dead man.

* * *

It did not really register in Washington's mind how this particular thing started, all he remembered was a very frustrated Agent Maine, a slightly lovey dovy pair of Agents New York and Carolina, and the images of South assuring Connie that 'it' would be fine and she'd be gentle. Thing is, no one told the Freelancers about one of the Insurrectionists having sex pollen in their possession, nor did they warn them that the shitty pink stuff on their armor was the pollen and that they shouldn't touch any part of their skin with the junk; in short, all of the Freelancers (Everyone had been on that mission) were now highly intoxicated by sex pollen and were thoroughly enjoying each other's company in the privacy of their bedrooms.

Washington, for his part, was more or less carried to Maine's bedroom after everyone had left, mentally agreeing at the same time that the other was plenty perfect for a one night stand or more. Maine was far rougher than most men, and tossed Wash unceremoniously onto his large bed, seeing as he needed the extra room as a SPARTAN who thrashed in his sleep. Wash almost purred thanks to the pollen as Maine removed his armor at record speed, settling over him in only the under-suit of the thick undercoating of underarmor. The man helped Wash outta his armor, being careful around anything that had injuries underneath from the mission. Once Wash was just as under-dressed as Maine, they grinded against each other while making out, moaning into the sloppy kisses.

Wash was about to say they should just get all of their clothes off, but Maine beat his ass to it, practically ripping off their under-suits. However, Wash went white as a sheet as he remembered the diaper between his legs, attempting to cover himself or even leave, as to not disappoint Maine, but damn, the SPARTAN was persistent about what he wanted. Without a word, Maine stripped him, and didn't bat an eye at the thankfully dry diaper Wash wore, simply tossing it aside and grabbing a tiny bottle of lube from a side-drawer, to which Wash chuckled, earning an odd growl from Maine.

"And here I thought I was the only one." Wash said, referring to the bottle. "You use the flavored shit too?"

Maine grumbled out an answer, which basically explained that the flavored kind was all anyone could sneak on board of the MOI without getting caught, and that he had bought it off Wyoming weeks before. "Oh, Wyoming uses it?" Maine raised an eyebrow at Wash as a result. "Oh, right, Florida, almost forgot about those two being a thing... damn, they're pr-" Maine glared at Wash. "Oh, right, yeah, shutting up now, got it."

* * *

"I know."

Tucker barely even looked up from the TV as Washington towered over him from behind the couch, hands on his hips as he glared at the shorter Blue. Tucker rolled his eyes, not even looking at the Freelancer, until he swerved around to tell him to just fuck off, only to see an odd sight. Wash was out of armor, clad in only a pair of sweatpants, an overly big T-shirt reading 'Blue Team' (Certainly Caboose's), and yellow socks on his feet; he had short, scruffy blonde hair, grey/blue eyes, and a light fuzz for a beard that was attempting to grow in. The younger Blue looked Washington up and down, taking in what he couldn't in the darkness of the older man's bedroom, eventually, he snorted, turning back to the TV.

"You need to shave, dude." Tucker suggested, flicking the channel after becoming bored with the show. "Also, you're short outta armor."

"You're shorter, Lavernius." By the way Wash spat out his first name, Tucker knew he wasn't playing games.

Sighing, Tucker simply turned off the TV, twisting around on the couch to glare childishly at Wash. "So, I guess the cats outta the bag, huh? Figured you'd find out sooner or later..."

"Tell me why." Wash ordered, glaring at Tucker, the icy blue in his eyes bearing into Tucker without mercy. "I want to know why you even thought doing that was the least bit acceptable or even the right-"

"Quit your bitching." Tucker interrupted, ignoring the way Wash's teeth bared a bit; if Tucker could stand Church's angry glares and gazes, he could easily handle an irritated Agent Washington. "I found out, okay? You sure as fuck weren't gonna tell me, so I asked the Reds if they knew what was up."

"And?" Wash pressed on, taking a seat on the couch beside Tucker. "What did they say?"

Tucker shrugged. "Well, Sarge told me to pretty much fuck off and almost shot me, but Grif and Simmons agreed to tell me after awhile. Look, I didn't mean to start shit, I just wanted to help I guess; I mean, we can't have you dying too, Caboose needs a new Church."

Wash nodded, sighing deeply. "Now it's your turn." Tucker broke in, making Wash's head snap up, staring wildly at Tucker. "You heard me, smartass; tell me what's up with the diapers."

The man groaned, shaking his head. "It's... complicated; awhile back, back before Epsilon fucked my life over, we were on a mission... some woman came out of nowhere and fought with me, cornering me and stabbing me in the lower abdomen."

"Is that _bad_?" Tucker asked. "I mean, like, _fatal_?"

"It was supposed to be." Wash said, shaking his head. "But those doctors on the MOI saved my ass, and I was let out of Recovery after a few weeks. At first, nothing changed, just a few new scars and people asking about it, but nothing major. Then, well, you can probably figure it out."

Tucker scrunched up his face, but his eyes widened at the realization. "_Oh_..." He sounded it out, shutting his mouth tightly after it came out. "_Wow_."

"No kidding." Wash muttered, running his hands through his hair. "At first, I didn't tell a soul, and I thought I was a freak or something; when I was a kid, I wet the bed alot, so I got teased relentlessly by kids at school for it, so I guess that fear came back a bit... Anyways, long story short, a few other Freelancers, thankfully nice ones, found out about it and somehow got the Director involved."

Tucker made a soft hissing sound, backing up a bit. "Fuck man, that sucks shit."

"It wasn't so bad." Washington mused, leaning into the couch more as he relaxed into his story. "In the end, he made sure no one gave me shit about, but in return I had to wear-" He gestured to his lap, to which Tucker nodded. "-This."

"That still fucking sucks, Wash." Tucker said, sounding almost frustrated by it. "Wait, so did the Director tell everyone about it, just like that?"

"Basically." Wash grimaced at the remembrance of the meeting, of having to stand up there in front of everyone, shaking and nearly crying from embarrassment and intense amounts of worry. "But thankfully it was pretty much forgotten when Tex rolled around."

Tucker's eyebrow went up curiously. "What did she do?" He asked.

"That's a whole different story." Wash announced, which really meant 'That shits hardcore and needs time to be told properly'. "One for another day."

"You sound like an old man." Tucker stated matter-of-factly. "Cancel that, you sound like Sarge after he watches his old war movies and all those weird fucking cop shows. Or Old Yeller; he gets kinda weird for a few days if he watches that."

Washington chuckled, grabbing a spare shotgun that Sarge had left at the base once, holding it exactly the way Sarge did. "_Men_!" He shouted, his voice mimicking Sarge. "Those Dirty Blues are up to no good yet again, which means I'm gonna order you all around with a ridiculous amount of dumbass orders that are _sure_ to help us win the war! For our ancestors!"

Tucker lost it, rolling on the floor as he fell into a fit of giggling and full blown laughter, tears brimming in his eyes even. "H-holy s-shit, Wash! Y-you need to d-do more f-fucking impressions!" The last word came out as a shrill little screech, to which Wash chuckled.

Wash threw the shotgun aside, smiling a bit at Tucker as he stood, wiping his eyes a hefty amount as he regained his composure. "Jesus motherfucking Christ, Agent Washington. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Years of practice." Wash assured Tucker, hands on his hips as he watched Tucker stand back up.

"Any examples?" Tucker questioned.

"Well, back in the Project, this one time North and South got me good with a water-balloon prank, so I had a bit of revenge to get. So, when no one was looking, I stole the microphone from the Director's office and imitated his voice... long story short, I slept in the Pelican that night with a black-eye and a broken nose." Wash explained, wincing at the memory. "Be glad you never had to spar with Carolina; she can throw one _Hell_ of a punch when she's irritated, and do not get me _started_ on when she's mad."

Tucker nodded, grinning all the while. "What ever happened to her?"

Wash stopped, feeling uncomfortable for a number of reasons all at once. "She died, well, she got _killed_ to be more specific... she was the first to die by Maine's hand..."

"I'm sorry," Tucker said, looking honest to God sorry for all he was worth. "I didn't-"

"It's not your fault," Washington cut in, smiling as the memories faded. "You were curious, and it was my choice to respond."

Tucker shrugged, walking past Wash on his way to the kitchen. "So, what're we gonna do now, Wash?"

"What do you mean?" Wash asked, leaning on the other side of the counter as Tucker made himself a sandwich. "I think we're pretty stable where we are, Blood Gulch is a great-"

"Seriously, I'm talking about _you_, dumbass." Tucker said, glaring halfheartedly at Wash. "You gonna tell Caboose and just be open with this shit, or are you gonna go through another 'Emo Wash' stage on me?"

Washington sighed, shaking his head. "I dunno, maybe?" He looked almost deflated. "It's a hard decision."

"All of Red Team knows, and I know too; the only one who doesn't is Caboose, and we all know he wears those things constantly." Tucker explained, still trying to focus offhandedly at making his lunch. "Look, I'm just saying you've got nothing to lose, man."

"That's what I'm worried about." Wash stated, sitting on the counter instead of leaning on it. "What if... fuck it, it's dumb."

"_What_?" Tucker pressed on, sounding almost agitated. "Spit it out, man."

Wash sighed, looking away. "What if Caboose expects me to act like a baby?"

That got Tucker even more confused. "Wait, what? Why would you even fucking think that, dude?"

"Well, Caboose acts very child-like, which is commonly known in this canyon. And since he wears diapers, it might actually add onto that somewhat; I'm just saying, he might expect me to act the same way, and if I don't, I'm worried it'll damage his idea on diapers or something." Wash explained, sounding tired.

"Dude," Tucker sounded tired, rubbing his face in that fashion, further adding onto that effect. "You realize Caboose isn't a baby, right? Yeah, the dude wears diapers and does kid shit alot, but that doesn't mean he's got the mind of a two-year old. Man, if I was that carefree, I'd act like a kid too."

"So, you're saying Caboose won't be too freaked out?" Wash inquired, as if begging for Tucker to be telling the truth. "I mean, I'll still stay 'In The Closet' about this if it's easier, but-"

As if called upon by God, Caboose strode on into Blue Base, smiling and waving as he saw Tucker, but stopped dead in his tracks as he saw Washington. For a second, their eyes locked, both not saying a damned thing before Tucker spoke up. "Hey, Caboose; how was it at the Red's?"

Upon getting no answer, Tucker looked away, made uncomfortable with dread at what might go down. After a few minutes, Caboose just grinned, running over and patting Wash's face kindly. "Your face is soft, Agent Wash." He commented before running off, supposedly to do his own thing.

"Told ya," Tucker stated, as if he'd never been nervous, walking right past Washington with his newly prepared lunch. "Now then, if you'll excuse me, hockey season has kicked off on Earth and I gotta watch the Red Wings kick some serious ass!" With that, he plopped onto the couch, turning on the TV with a chuckle.

Wash stared, still a bit disgruntled, but soon sighed with a bit of content, just glad nothing catastrophic had come about with his confrontation with Tucker or his interaction with Caboose. At least now, he thought, he could have a better nights sleep.

Well, as better of a nights sleep he could have these days.

_Fin_

_To Be Continued?_

* * *

**A/N: Definitely an odd story-arc this'll be, but fuck it, I like where this is going so far, even though I'm certain others won't. Anyways, I'll have more up as they're written, though, some chapters will be shameless smut, and others will be a full on story with it, like this one surely was (I have another Doc/Washington/Meta one I'm working on, will need millions of warnings for that). I hope you enjoyed! Please read and review, also, feel free to request just about anything; I'm not only here to get out my own smutty crap, but other people's if they want it!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	2. Breathe, Soldier Part 1

**Bow Chicka Bow Wow**

**Title: Breathe, Soldier**

**Part 1: Giving Me The Creeps**

**Pairing: Locington (Locus/Agent Washington)**

**Warning(s): M/M Slash, Intense Sexual Intercourse, Desperation, Referenced Knife Play, Sexual Tension, Referenced Breath Play, Dom/Sub Undertones, Power Kink, Abuse of Power, Mentioned Abuse, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Mentioned Character Death, Etc.**

**Description: There are things Washington has failed to tell Tucker and Caboose about, or even Sarge and Donut for that matter. Alot happened before they left the Feds... things Washington will never forget. In which nightmares are a constant for Wash, and Locus is terrifying, more terrifying than the nightmares. He swears it's nothing at first... but it keeps the monsters away. At least, the ones in his dreams...**

**A/N: Was meant originally for just smut, but I actually got carried away... again. Locington is secretly a huge ship of mine, so... yeah. Once again, it seems in this series Wash doesn't have the upper-hand, but at least he's more controlled, if ya know what I mean (And by that I mean not at all in some ways).**

* * *

"F-Fuck!"

The younger, much less experienced teenager moved along with the man on top of him, allowing the older boy to take control. All of this was so wrong... but David was sixteen, sixteen and desperate to break a few rules. This older guy offered him that. David briefly remembered a name for the guy... was it Rufus? God, he couldn't think, not with the two thankfully lube-covered fingers rocking into his once virgin hole, trying to ease around and find his prostate. Young David did as the man instructed, shifting when he was told, but listening and focusing was getting continuously harder as those seemingly magic fingers did their job. Dave gasped aloud as Rufus's index finger brushed his prostate, making him jerk at once.

"Finally," Rufus laughed, smiling down at David, as if he were a little, helpless mouse. "Thought I'd never find it... you ready, David?"

David nodded, whimpering a tad as those fingers left him, making him feel empty and hot all at once. Before he could grow too saddened by that, something much bigger than a finger lightly prodded at his hole, making David grunt, trying to push down and get it in hard and fast. Rufus, or whatever his name was, did not leave David hanging, quickly complying and easing his own erection into the pitiful blonde's asshole. David moaned as the first thrust rocked him back, his head hitting the headboard of his small bed. Nana wouldn't be home for another four hours, so he didn't hold back as he almost screamed at another thrust. Rufus was going faster, faster than anything, and David was reaching his peek, especially as Rufus started jerking David's erected dick, making him moan louder.

"F-Fuck... I'm close!" David warned, whimpering as he tried to shut his mouth. Yeah, nobody but he and Rufus were home, but still... he had never liked being loud, not at school, not at home, not anywhere.

"Just come," Rufus offered, his tone going gentle as he jerked David harder and faster, his latest thrust making him come himself. "Just... let it go, David."

As David finally came, his hot cum splashing in-between he and Rufus, when he heard something like an explosion going off. He opened his eyes minutes later, still panting and worn out, only to see Rufus gone. "Rufus?" He called out, looking around. Why did he feel like this had happened before? It couldn't though, he'd never had sex of any kind up until that point, so how-

_He woke up._

* * *

"Agent Wash?"

"_Sh_, Sarge, I think he's still sleeping!"

"Of course he is, dumbnuts! Why ya think 'm tryin' to wake his ass up!?"

"But, _Sarge_!"

"Don't try my patience, boy."

Agent David Cooper Washington awoke with a groan, coming to with a drowsy headache already setting in, as well as aches and pains entering other various limbs of his body. Where was he? As he sat up and looked around, Washington became very well aware of where he was all too soon. He was with the Feds, the Federal Army of Chorus to be more specific, and he'd only come to after a short coma the day before. He had a check-up with the Fed's doctor at six AM... but what time was it anyhow? The soldier stood up, instantly regretting it as he felt a very sharp morning wood poke in anguish in his codpiece. The man wanted to groan, but held back, keeping a straight face as he faced Sarge and Donut.

"Wash, you're up!" Donut cried cheerfully, smiling widely, his helmet discarded while the rest of his armor was on securely. "Doctor Grey wanted us to tell you that you were late, and she wants to see you ASAP!"

"Dammit, Donut," Sarge cried, smacking the younger rookie on the head, his own helmet securely on his head. He and Wash had similar standards when it came to wearing armor. "You didn't even tell 'em 'bout Lopez!"

"Lopez?" Washington questioned, only to remember the Spanish robot a second too late. "I thought they fixed him yesterday, where is he anyhow?"

Sarge would've looked heartbroken by Washington's guess if he had been unarmored. "Aw, Lopez, my only real friend... they took 'em off 'n said he needed fixin'! Oh, why, why you terrible, forsaken God I once swore was Red!?" He collapsed onto Wash outta nowhere.

The grey soldier was completely surprised, but soon softened, patting Sarge's backing both awkwardly and comfortingly. "I'm... sure he's fine, Sarge... they wouldn't hurt Lopez, not on our watch." He had comforted his Nana on more than one occasion, but this, comforting an insane war veteran? Wash was clueless as to what to do. "Um... I better go see the doctor. I'll be back soon, 'kay?"

"Okey dokey!" Donut replied, taking Washington's place in hugging Sarge, but he did it with more passion and enthusiasm. "I'll take of 'em for ya!"

"Um... thanks, Donut..." Wash muttered, walking off, but not without a noticeably oddness in his step, coming from the awful hard-on between his legs.

Oh yes... It was going to be a long day.

* * *

The grey Freelancer moved quickly through the hallways, figuring out halfway through to the main entrance that he had no clue where the doctor's office was. No matter, he could find it on his own! Washington walked more slowly this time, feet echoing in the empty hallways, seeing as all of the soldiers were out training or in the mess hall eating. As a few more minutes passed, Wash became continuously more lost, until he'd wound up somewhere farther off from the barracks. He looked around earnestly, trying to spot anything that looked remotely like a doctor's office, but everything looked so much alike, it was hard to spot any particular landmarks or signs. Sighing, Wash was ready to give up, until a deep voice broke through the air.

"Agent Washington, you're up rather late." Locus commented, standing directly behind the Freelancer.

Washington swung around full force, glaring daggers behind his visor at the mercenary. How in God's name had Locus gotten the drop on him? Had to be the invisibility upgrade to his armor, Wash reasoned. "What're you doing here, Locus?"

The mercenary put away his weapon, stepping closer to Wash, a little too close really. "The Doctor asked me to fetch you... you're an hour later for your check-up, Agent."

The no doubt younger man looked away, suddenly uncomfortable with the way Locus was looking at him. "Thanks, I guess." He muttered out, turning towards what he hoped was the doctor's office.

"Other way." Locus stated, without even looking at Washington.

"Oh, uh, I know. Just had to turn around is all." Washington explained, running past Locus again to another building.

Before he could get away however, Wash was grabbed by the back of his upper-body armor, being yanked backwards by Locus. "Agent Washington, in the future, if you're ever in need of a guide of the camp, I'd be happy to oblige." The mercenary promised, soon letting go, his grip having lingered a bit.

"Yeah, I'll keep it in mind, thanks," Washington lied, walking back towards the doctor's office. "I said it before and I'll say it again, Locus; you aren't my friend." The Freelancer stated, turning to glare again at Locus.

Locus simply nodded, pulling out his Saw once more, walking away. "I've never wanted to befriend you, Agent." He explained, before disappearing once more from the man's vision.

Wash shivered, shaking his head. "And I thought I was melodramatic." He muttered, running off again to find Dr. Grey and get his stupid check-up over with.

* * *

"Great to see ya showed up, Agent Washington," Emily Grey greeted, looking none too happy at her patient's lateness. "I'll need you to strip out of your armor now and sit on the bed, please."

"But, I-" It felt odd somewhere in Washington's mind that he spoke up, but hey, he wasn't about to just show his body to anybody. Of course, if he had ready expected to avoid this, he would've just never shown up. "Are you sure we need to-"

"Agent Washington," Wash heard a certain amount of both anger and impatience leaking in Dr. Grey's throat. "You're already really late for this check-up, and I have other patients waiting for me. Please, don't make me get somebody to help." By help, Wash could deduce she meant have someone come in and manhandle him out of his armor.

Washington tried not to make any smartass retorts as he finally started to pull off his armor, minding the doctor's steady gaze on his person. He squirmed a bit under that look, reminding himself that she was a doctor, one who he could trust in looking at his body. Thing was, the only people who'd ever seen him naked were his long since dead parents, his Nana, the prostitute he'd hired at sixteen to fuck senseless and good, Maine, The Director (He'd screamed that time), and Carolina (Again, screamed). That was quite the list, but Wash still felt a certain touch of modesty. He'd always been modest body-wise, never talking-wise (He couldn't even count how many times he'd back-talked York or North).

However, he pushed those remaining strands of modesty out the window as he found himself only in his boxers and helmet, finding that he must've looked ridiculous. Emily sighed, smirking though as she forced Washington to sit on a medical fold-out table. "You're more modest than rookie during his first group shower." She commented, running her hands over his ribs, making the man stiffen on instinct. "Easy there, tiger," She ordered, voice soft. "I'm not gonna kill you... hopefully."

"That doesn't really help, to be honest," Wash mentioned, freezing when Emily stopped checking his bandaged sides, hands making a move for the seal-release on his helmet. "Don't... don't do that."

"I need to check your head for any signs of a concussion, as well as review the surgery I did a few days ago." Emily explained, stopping to take her own helmet off. Her eyes were shocking purple, while her hair was a soft auburn color. "See? S'not so bad." She explained.

"I'm not a child," Wash stated, letting Emily take off his helmet, his arms wrapping around his middle. "Stop talking to me like I'm crazy."

Emily placed Washington's helmet beside the Freelancer, returning her hands to his face, to which Wash tried not to meet her eyes, trying to turn away, only making her irritated. "Oh, stop it, ya big baby," She ordered, smirking when Wash huffed. "Hold still, I'm almost done."

After what felt like forever, Emily Grey let go of Washington's face, walking to her computer, which was set up on her desk idly. She picked up a mic connected to it, clicking it on. "Patient Agent Washington shows signs of past abuse, as predicted. Patient also showed reluctance to follow orders, as well as a large amount of modesty. The surgery seems to have been a success, no lasting trauma seems to have come to the neural implants in the patient's neck. On an added note, the patient's eyes are grey/blue, his hair is a suicide blonde, and he seems to have Asian heritage. I have theories that he is a Patch Baby. Finish Recording."

"You do that for every patient?" Wash asked playfully, but didn't make any further moves to unwind before the doctor. He silently pretended that a part of him hadn't internally flinched at the mentioning of Patch Babies.

"It's necessary these days," Emily explained, moving back over to Washington, lifting one of his arms experimentally. "Do you feel any pain in any parts of your body, specifically in your head or neck?"

Wash shook his head. "None that're too severe." He explained, looking away as Emily recorded his reply into her computer. "Are we done yet? I'd like to scout the camp and get a feel for it."

"Of course," Emily mused back, smiling at Wash. "You were an... alright patient. Not lollypop worthy, but you did better than Locus ever did." She started saving her computer files. "I'll be seeing you back here soon enough, Wash. See ya then!"

The blonde almost asked about Locus's visit, but decided at the last minute that it was better to just keep quiet. The faster he could be in his armor, the better. The man hopped off the table, reclaiming his under-suit, when a knock hit the door. Before anyone could answer, Locus walked in, stopping to stare at Washington. The blonde squirmed under the mercenary's gaze, unused to the attention to his body. Besides, he'd hardly ever been out of armor since Project Freelancer, and just being in his just his under-suit was enough to make him feel naked before Locus. The Freelancer soon gathered his bearings and started to re-armor, ignoring Locus's still roaming eyes.

"Locus," Emily sounded both mad and stern, which made Wash almost chuckle at the thought of such a young girl challenging a giant monster like Locus. "I told you to wait for me to answer before you just barge in. You're lucky it wasn't Doyle I was checking, he would've fainted!" She crossed her arms, glaring at the mercenary.

"My apologizes, doctor." Locus spoke with a certain touch of sincere apology in his voice, giving Wash the impression that Emily had saved Locus's sorry ass more than once before. "I'll try and remember that next time... the General asked me to bring you this," He hands her a well-locked box, which Emily takes quickly and happily. "He seems... _hesitant_ to give it to you."

"Oh, _goody_!" Emily's once stern demeanor changed just like that, her voice going sweet and adorable once more. "My monkey lungs are here! I've been wanting to do a few experiments on these puppies for so long now... looks like I've got something to do this weekend!" She nodded at Washington, seeing him fully armored. "You can go now, Agent Washington. Sorry for the wait!"

"No problem" Wash mumbled back, holding his hands up, backing away towards the door very slowly. Emily was acting alot like Sarge when he got excited about experiments... he wasn't about to find out if she got similar results as the Red Team leader anytime soon. "I'll be on my way then," He decided, walking past Locus, refusing the urge to shove past him or growl under his breath. "I'm going to go check on Sarge and see if Lopez is outta repairs."

Even as Washington left, he could still fell Locus's eyes on his retreating person, making him feel smaller and smaller with each, long, tedious step away from the doctor's office.

* * *

"We're being _separated_!?"

Donut sounded, as Washington had expected, terrified and honestly betrayed. He watched the pink soldier with a sad expression under his helmet, desperately wishing it didn't have to go down this way. As it turns out, the Feds had bases everywhere, well, almost everywhere, and they need Donut, Sarge, and Lopez elsewhere, while Washington is needed there. Wash sighed under his breath, not loud enough for Donut to hear over his panicking, loud enough for Lopez to process, sad enough for Sarge to give him a concerned tilt of his own helmet. Wash patted Donut's shoulder awkwardly, like he had hugged Sarge that morning, feeling out of place and unnecessary.

Locus was off to the side, watching the little interaction steadily, his gaze focused mainly on Washington once more, making the grey and yellow soldier uncomfortable as it had before. When deeply thought upon, Wash had wished he could also accompany the Reds, but in reality, he knew damn well knew that he was needed wherever he could assist. Wash was... he wasn't dedicated, not in the way he knows dedication. _Dedication_ is working overtime at a fast-food restaurant to afford your Nana's pills, _dedication_ is signing up for a war your father believed in at age sixteen, _dedication_ is joining a project you've never heard of just to make a difference, _dedication_ is protecting the Simulation Soldiers who protected you once.

Protecting the Federalists is not the dedication Washington knows, but it's... _something._

"Well, if you're all ready... may we be off?" Doyle sounded scared to intervene, as Wash expected, but he could see the fluid evidence of true dedication on his face for the military. Doyle was out of armor, wearing a finely pressed suit, having to leave for a conference in the same place the Reds are going off to. "I hate to rush-" That much is obvious. "-But... we are on a very tight schedule."

"Understood," Sarge replied, sounding strangely accepting of the whole 'Working for the Feds' deal they had going on. "We'll be ready in just a sec 'ere, General." He turned to Donut, taking Wash's place in patting his back. "Come on, son," He ordered softly, guiding him away from the Freelancer. "Let's get'a goin'."

"_*Sniff*_, Do we gotta, Sarge?" Donut begged to know, hiccuping lightly into his armored arm, hunched over as he looked up for confirmation to Sarge. When his leader finally nodded, he looked to Wash, his fear apparent, even with his armor on. "Bye, Wash." He muttered, walking away.

"We'll be back sooner than ya think," Sarge promised, nodding at Wash. As usual, he was reading everyone like a book. "Keep my shotgun while 'm gone, ya here?"

"Um..." Doyle spoke up, fidgeting behind the Sargent. "I do believe you are permitted to bring your, er, shotgun. However, I also believe that close-combat weapons would n-" Without even hearing Doyle all the way out, Sarge was long gone, off to get his shotgun. "At least we can expect him to... um, _inspire_ our soldiers?" He decided, slowly walking away. "Come along then, we must be on our way!"

Donut followed along with Lopez, both giving Wash one last, long look. "I'll be fine," Washington promised, waving at the two Reds, now turned three as Sarge regrouped at record time. "You guys get those soldiers trained so we can get our friends back sooner."

With that, Sarge, Donut, and Lopez were led out of the Federalist base, and into a Warthog with Doyle. Wash sighed, before Locus loomed behind him, a heavy hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "They'll be fine, Agent." Locus promised, but it almost sounded like a guarantee, like he could control their protection somehow.

Wash brushed Locus off, glaring at the green and black mercenary. "I don't need your comfort, Locus." He spat back, storming off, only to be stopped again by the larger man.

"If you're ever in need of my... _assistance_-" Washington was smart enough to catch what Locus was throwing at him. "Feel free to come get me..." Locus walked off after that, leaving Wash be with his thoughts.

* * *

**To Be Continued...**

**A/N: Sadly, it's not the Grimmons I've been working on for Yin, but Locington is my dirty ship and I just HAD to get something else posted on here... but yeah, more slash for the next part for sure! At the very least, this has slash in it, which I actually liked somewhat. Again, I'm fairly unexperienced with writing slash fanfictions, so please, keep that in mind! Please R&amp;R, and have a nice day!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	3. Breathe, Soldier Part 2

**Bow Chicka Bow Wow**

**Title: Breathe, Soldier**

**Part 2: Assistance**

**Pairing: Locington (Locus/Agent Washington)**

**Warning(s): M/M Slash, Intense Sexual Intercourse, Desperation, Referenced Knife Play, Sexual Tension, Referenced Breath Play, Dom/Sub Undertones, Power Kink, Abuse of Power, Mentioned Abuse, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Mentioned Character Death, Etc.**

**Description: There are things Washington has failed to tell Tucker and Caboose about, or even Sarge and Donut for that matter. Alot happened before they left the Feds... things Washington will never forget. In which nightmares are a constant for Wash, and Locus is terrifying, more terrifying than the nightmares. He swears it's nothing at first... but it keeps the monsters away. At least, the ones in his dreams...**

**A/N: I got nothing but the story ahead! Please R&amp;R!  
**

* * *

The sounds of the chilling rain flooded the Federal campsite, thick, icky swamp raindrops falling like angels with broken wings to the ground, loud symphonies of thunderclaps signaling their downfall and deaths. A young man with blonde, dirty hair squinted his grey/blue eyes, the color matching closer to an American Earth storm rather than a Chorus one. The being watched as the dirt beneath his boots gave way to the mud, the dark sludge sticky and clumpy as it gathered grass blades of a bluer color than should be natural. Thunderclaps echoed through the night time air, making a long, painful shiver run up the young man's spine, his teeth tightening in fear of chattering, not wanting to look weak.

The being this man feared to look weak before stood tall and well-armored by his side, the dark grey and green making his camouflage virtually unneeded as he watched the downpour beside his unlucky companion. The younger man, Agent Washington, wanted to glare at the mercenary standing a head taller than him, but held back, enjoying the chilling silence as long as he possibly could. The Feds had kept him on the move for the last week or so, though he hardly noticed, too busy at his attempts to train the troops assigned to him. They were all fairly bright, but they lacked skill. They reminded Wash of himself during Project Freelancer, of even before then, back when he was a kid.

He'd been a good kid, honest to God he had, but dammit, there were decisions Washington wished he could erase even now. He remembered alot of things, some useless, some very much important. He remembered finding a stray tabby cat and bringing her home at seven years old, he remembered that same cat dying three years later. He remembered starting an argument with a mob boss at twelve, he also remembered regretting it seven seconds afterwards. There were, indeed, many things Washington remembered and had forgotten in turn, but the list of forgotten things was much shorter than the things he recalled. Wash sighed, a puff of greyish air escaping his mouth like cigarette smoke leaves a Poker player's lungs.

"Reminiscing, Agent Washington?" Locus asked all too suddenly, making Washington jump, if only slightly, enough for the huge mercenary to spot. "Something tells me I am correct."

"It's none of your business..." Washington insisted, coughing weakly into the humid air, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them. He hated humidity with a burning passion... a wonder how he survived fifteen years living in Seattle. "Why don't you go patrol? Pretty sure we'll be settling down for the night soon."

"I would only hope so... these battles have been lasting longer." Locus commented, looking upon the camp steadily, SAW loaded in his strong, armored arms, fingers twitching occasionally. Not that anyone noticed.

"I wouldn't know," Wash replied, somewhat bitterly, somewhat thankfully. Depended on what mood he was in when you asked. "I'm wondering when I'll be sent off to the field..."

"Not for a long time." Locus promised, helmet tilted towards Washington, studying his extremely freckled face with a glint of curiosity on his domed helmet. "You remind me of someone, Agent."

"Really now," It was painfully clear that Washington wasn't interested in what Locus was now talking about, his eyes trained on where a rookie was showing a few senior officers a knife trick. "That dumbass rookie, he's gonna chop his fucking fingers off doing that."

"You seem to be quite interested in knives, Washington," Locus decided aloud, and Wash could almost feel that mercenary's fucking smirk. He wondered why Locus would be happy about that. "Have you trained with them before?"

Instead of answering, Washington took off across the campsite, realizing that, yeah, the rookie was totally gonna chop his fingers off in a few seconds if he didn't intervene. Faster than the Flash, Wash was there, snatching the knife expertly from the rookie's fingers, twisting it and making a tiny show of tossing it and all together showing off the weapon. Finally, Washington grabbed it midair after tossing it, slamming it millimeters from the rookie's other hand on the wooden crate he'd been using as a table. The soldiers around them all stared, eyes wide as Wash gave the poor rookie a stern glare. The rookie was Private Eastwood, a poor kid around nineteen who'd been trying to impress the older recruits seconds ago.

Wash snatched up the knife again, holding it gently by the blade, the handle poised dangerously at Eastwood, condensation leaving big, fat, wet drops of swampy rain on the dark mahogany. "You be damn careful with this thing, kid," Washington ordered, grabbing Eastwood's hand and enclosing the handle in his open palm. "You're gonna cut your fingers off if you use it like that."

Locus watched as Wash walked away, the other soldiers surrounding Eastwood as soon as he was out of earshot, probably to either tease him or gossip about the crazy ex-Freelancer. The same one who'd been performing kick-flips on an old skateboard the day before. "You handled that well." Locus commented, following Wash as the Freelancer continued off from the scene he'd unintentionally made. "Maybe one of these days you'll show me how it's done, David."

Washington flinched so violently, if anyone but Locus had been watching, they would've called a medic to check him out for injuries. It took a few minutes for Wash to recover, but when he did, he looked more pale, irises big and worry filled. "How do you know my name?" His voice was dangerously steady, too steady to not be insane. "How do you know my name, Locus?" He repeated, more harsh, eyes squinting with the building of hot, magma-like anger. The volcano would erupt if Locus wasn't careful.

"I've known for some time, David," Locus explained, not afraid to trigger Wash by the looks of it. "Or was it Davy that your grandmother called you? I remember you... I remember you very well..." He walked away, removing his helmet enough to show his midnight dark skin, a sly smirk only for Wash. "I have a feeling I'll see you again tonight. Until then, good luck, David."

"_Wait_!" But Locus didn't look back, clicking back on his helmet, leaving Washington in the soggy rain, the droplets dribbling like spoonfuls of applesauce down the back of his armor.

The grey and yellow soldier stared, his hair now a soaping wet mess, clinging to his head as the downpour beat upon the ground with a new intensity, signaling for soldiers to get inside. And so they did. Washington stayed. He stayed there for a long time, allowing condensation to form and dribble away like youth over his armor, replanting into the ground to maybe bring new life, only for it to be later destroyed by a new battle or war. The Freelancer soon fisted his piano-finger built hands, storming off like the possible hurricane above his head, stomping back to where he'd stood with Locus minutes ago, before that rookie had caused him to step forward. He clicked his helmet back on.

_Locus knew his name..._

Washington walked away, his feet taking him away from the camp, towards where a waterfall was said to be. He could use a shower, he mused, something to cleanse the sick and anger away from his pale skin. Anything to make him stop thinking, stop _worrying_, stop fucking _remembering_.

_Locus knew his name..._

The Freelancer started stripping, removing his armor at record speeds, mind fishing for a connection, anyone Locus reminded him of from his past. He knew he had the answer. His pointless musing was now becoming an excuse to spite it, and maybe find another answer to replace the truth. Washington drowned his thoughts then in swamp water, ignoring the terrible feeling of slime and barely any water slipping over his now naked body. He drowned himself in the darkness as he closed his eyes, fingers scrubbing through the suicide blonde on his head, trying to scrub away too many lies and truths at once. It continued to rain even after Wash scrambled to shore, ducking under a tree to maybe dry off.

_Locus knew his name..._

* * *

Not even three hours later, Locus woke up to the sound of teeth chattering. Smirking a bit, Locus flicked on his old fashioned oil lantern, spying the soaping wet bundle huddled at the corner of his tent. Poor Wash, he looked like a stray kitten who'd just crawled out of a river, his siblings not surviving the swim, or the other Freelancers in Washington's case. The mercenary sat up, beckoning Washington over, who, against his better judgement, immediately crawled under the blanket to press up against Locus's warm and pleasing form. Closing his eyes for just a moment, Wash buried his face in Locus's grey T-shirt. Suddenly realizing what was going on, Wash jumped back, but Locus's steady arms were already around him, keeping him nice and close to his chest.

"Let me _go_!" Washington demanded, but he still seemed hesitant to leave the warmth of Locus's cot.

"I don't think I will," Locus mused, petting Wash's ruffled up blonde hair tenderly, the strings all damp and unbrushed. "Though, I do think you know exactly who I am... or who you at the very least think I am."

"_Rufus_," Wash mumbled, his voice muffled as he went back to resting heavily against Locus. "You left me that night, ya know."

"Your grandmother would have caught us, David," Locus explained, though he didn't sound very sorry. "Besides, I hardly even knew you back then... you hired me to take your virginity, and I did. It was supposed to end there."

"Then why didn't it?" Washington finally asked, the question being one he'd been fearing and contemplating over the last few hours. "Why didn't you just move on or forget about me, why didn't you just fuck some other guy?"

Locus suddenly had Wash pinned, making the blonde gulp, so many flashes of memories. Skin on skin, alot of sweating, alot of hushing on Rufus's end, alot of whining and bucking too. In response, Locus had their mouths meet, tongue pressing into the much younger man's mouth greedily as he took what he'd always seen as his. "My name was never Rufus," Locus mumbled out between a kiss, stealing another before returning to his chattering. "It was Luke... and then it was Locus."

"Which one are you right now?" Wash asked, also in-between a kiss, breathing becoming ragged as that boner from about a week ago decided to say, hey, the guy kissing you should know I fucking exist.

"I don't have a personality disorder, David," Locus announced, biting Wash's lip as punishment for the insult on his name. "I couldn't just run around as a prostitute with my real name, now could I? No, I only used Rufus for you... other lovers knew me by different names. Yet, somehow... I always went back to think of you, the shuddering virgin who didn't even know he needed lube."

"I was sixteen," Wash reminded the darker man, attempting to snap a nip at Locus's lips, only for Locus to pull back, making his not even half-hard cock weep. "I wasn't exactly an expert on sex ed."

"You will be when I'm finished with you." Locus assured him, sitting up as he started yanking Wash's clothes off, glad the younger had only come in an old T-shirt and some boxers that had to have been owned by one of the recruits.

Washington complied without complaint, making quick work of getting Locus's boxers and shirt off, until the two were completely naked before each other. Nothing had changed since he was sixteen, besides maybe a surplus of scars, alot more history, a neural network of a suicidal AI's remains in the back of his skull, too many scars to pinpoint and mention, a large vocabulary, and a bigger difference in height than before. The natural blonde felt a familiar smile creep onto his face, one he hadn't felt in a very long time, not since he'd last seen Tucker and the others. All of that washed away, however, as Locus suddenly handcuffed Wash's wrists to a part of the lousy bed-frame keeping the cot off the wet, dirty, mud-ridden ground.

"The fuck are you doing?" Wash rasped out, wheezing slightly in the darkness as the light started to fade, eyes glazed over with pleasure and lust fueling his veins and brain.

"Only what you want me to do," Locus told the younger man, his face unable to be seen from the angle the lantern was at, making Wash squint, yet secretly thank whatever God was out there from sparing him from direct eye-contact with the mercenary. He'd never liked eye-contact, nor bondage.

"I don't want this," Wash assured Locus, struggling until Locus finally undid the handcuffs, allowing the well-muscled blonde to sit up, pressing light butterfly kisses to his chest as he worked his way up, a devilish light in his stormy eyes. "I just... I want it simple, alright?"

"If that works." It was very clear that Locus had preferred the bondage route, but dammit all, if Washington wasn't going to accept that... well, fuck, he'd find a way sooner or later.

* * *

The next morning, Washington woke up in a haze, squinting before he sat up, feeling sticky and gross before it all came back in a heated flash. Locus's hands on his hips, the loud smacking sound of Locus's member going in and out of his ass, the stings of hickeys on his neck, and the shivers of an unexpected and almost terrifying orgasm... he got up at once. Breathing hard, Washington began to get dressed, jerking as Locus suddenly clapped a hand onto his thigh, making him swallow hard and slow, feeling both comforted and intimidated by the mercenary's presence and touch. The blonde shivered, feeling Locus starting to sit up beside him, his tongue poking a prodding at his freckled skin, up his back and tracing over his exposed neck.

"Leaving so soon?" Locus inquired, that smirk still in his voice, low and quiet and threatening, yet so overly soft that Wash wanted to melt. "I believe last night was a mere warmup."

"We have training," Wash reminded the mercenary, feeling his arousal starting to come to life, but knew damn well that he needed to smother it before he got caught with Locus or got up late. "And we could get caught..."

"We could have very well gotten caught last night, yet we were not. Besides... we have time." Locus promised, looking ready for Wash's okay, ready to pin the suicide blonde in a heartbeat. "Interested, David?"

"Later." Washington promised, standing up and forcing his boxers on, but not without a tiny hiss to add to it. "Fuck..."

"In need of my assistance again, Agent Washington?" Locus inquired, looking all too smug as Wash glared at him, a childish pout on his lover's surprisingly young face. He silently wondered how a man Washington's age looked so young, despite all he'd seen and been through.

"I'll be fine," Wash promised, coughing into a closed fist as he adjusted his boxers a bit better, knowing damn well that his boner still showed. He'd be the talk of the morning it looked like. "Can I... borrow some pants though?"

Locus nodded, going to a duffel-bag by his cot, tossing a pair of pants and a belt at the young man. "Hey, Locus?" Wash spoke up, after getting the very large sized pants on, rolling up the legs a bit and tugging the belt on real tight. "Can I ask you something?"

The mercenary peered up at Wash, brushing his own dreadlocks out of his eyes as he started clasping on his armor, not bothering to dress in anything else for training/patrol. "What do you need, David?"

"Can you... not tell anyone about... whatever we're doing?" Wash asked, well, more begged really, but the insistence was there either way. "I'd much rather keep whatever funny business we get into between each other, if you don't mind."

"But of course," Locus agreed, his helmet clicking right back on, that damned voice filter making him sound more alien and less human. "I also would prefer to keep this s well guarded secret."

"Perfect," Wash announced, nodding as he started to go for the tent-flap, now fully dressed, but squeaked as Locus suddenly squeezed his ass. "Hey!" He protested, jumping before rubbing at his violated area.

Locus only chuckled, leaving the ten before Washington, who gave the area one final look, smiling fondly as the memories from last night. Feeling something wet press against his belly, Wash sighed, limping unceremoniously away from the tent. He could only hope his subordinates wouldn't notice...

_FIN_

* * *

**A/N: Sorry that I'm so vanilla with my slash writing, I'm still trying to get the hang of it! In the meantime, I'll work on getting more work done. Please R&amp;R, I'd really appreciate it!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	4. Bedwetter

**Bedwetter**

**Pairing(s): Leonard L. Church/Michael J. Caboose**

**Warning(s): Slight Watersports, Wetting of a Bed, Diapering of an Adult, Diapers, Spooning, BDSM Play, Bad BDSM, BDSM, Submission, Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Rape, Spanking, Paddling, etc.**

**Description: After Caboose wets his bed, he flees to Church for support, only for Church to have an accident of his own! Well, Caboose is JUST trying to help... too bad for Church that 'help' is a very loose term.**

**A/N: Mainly self-indulgent, but I haven't updated in forever, so I may as well update this fic. PS, been thinking real hard about making that first chapter it's own fic, since I'm pretty sure it's scaring people away. Thoughts?**

* * *

"Church."

"..."

"Church, please..."

"..."

"CHURCH, WAKE UP!"

The cobalt space marine yelped loudly as he shot up, eyes wide and crazed as he scoped the room, basic training reminding him that he was at war, and being at war meant there was the threat of having your throat slit while sleeping. Upon closer examination, he realized that it was none other than Caboose who'd awoken him, the Blue Team rookie watching him intently, though he had tears lacing down his face. Upon even closer inspection, Church was met with the terrible stench of old/drying urine, making him wrench back and gag.

Caboose gave Church a very sad look upon hearing the noise, and Church bit his lip, internally debating if he should look down at himself. He doubted he had, and he couldn't feel anything under his covers, but he knew damn well that his perception in the morning was, well, less than accurate. Sitting up more, he didn't say a word, pulling up his blankets to peek. Thankfully, he was completely dry, but that didn't explain that smell. Looking more closely at Caboose, Church realized the front of his teammate's pajama pants were soaking wet. Shit.

"Caboose, did you wet your fucking bed?" Church whispered/yelled at the younger man, squinting through the darkness at him, though he couldn't see much.

"I am sorry, Church." Caboose mumbled, the sound of his voice making Church feel like the biggest dickhead in the known universe. "I didn't mean to... I had a nightmare..."

Church softened, nodding at the rookie soldier. "Shit, man. What do you want then?" He would probably be forced to clean up the rookie's mess... wouldn't that be the perfect start to a peachy day?

Caboose shifted, looking uncomfortable, for more reasons than one. "Um... can I please sleep in your bed with you? It is scary in my room and Tucker is too dumb to help." He asked, giving his leader puppy-dog eyes.

Church grumbled to himself angrily. If he let the fucker sleep with him, there was at least a 25% chance he'd get himself soaked by morning, but dammit, he couldn't just tell the kid to fuck off. With another sigh, he pulled up his covers, allowing the much younger man to crawl into his bed. Caboose grinned, his tears halting as he squirmed under Church's covers, provoking a few grumbles and yelps with his added weight damn near crushing the older man. Military grade cots were not built to house two soldiers, especially a slightly over weight shorty like Church and a giant man-child like Caboose.

Church made it work though, eventually finding a more comfortable position in the darkness of the room. He figured it was around two in the morning, so at the very least, he'd only deal with this shit for a few hours. Soon being spooned by Caboose, Church waited until the rookie was fast asleep to try and squirm away. To his horror, Caboose had the death-grip of a serial killer, leaving him helplessly trapped in the man's arms. The worst part was definitely the fact that Caboose's soaked pants were pressed against him. Church shivered, the piss on Caboose now cooling to become itchy and uncomfortable.

Try as he might, Church couldn't rouse the giant man, forced to deal with the mess himself. And to make it worse, Church realized he needed to go, badly. On any other night, he'd just get up and go to the bathroom, or if he knew he couldn't make it, he'd piss in a water-bottle under his bed and wash it out before going back to bed. The cobalt space marine wanted to wake Caboose up so badly, the need to pee starting to ache like no tomorrow. He whimpered as he grounded his teeth together, knowing that if he squirmed too much, he might make a commotion and wake Tucker up. He'd rather die than have Tucker see him like this.

Legs squirming, Church did everything to keep from releasing his bladder, the pain making him queasy along with adding a raging headache. Finally, it was too much, and Church felt the beginnings of piss starting to pour into his own boxers. Yelping quietly, he bit his lip and tried to hold it. He managed to stop, but a bit had already come out, and it clung warmly to his boxers. The man sighed, relaxing for a second, but that was all he needed to get going again. This time, he couldn't stop it, and Church simply laid there, perfectly still as he continued to utterly soak himself.

Behind him, Caboose shifted. "Church?" he spoke up, concerned for his bestest friend in the entire world. "Are you? Oh... did you have an accident?"

For Church, it felt like the world was ending. Here he was, a grown ass man, and yet he'd pissed his bed like a five year old. And worst of all, Caboose had seen the whole damn thing. He wanted to cry, and he knew if he spoke, his voice would start hitching and he'd be done for. Memories flashed through his mind, memories of a woman he hardly remembered, his mother scooping him up at three years old and telling him, for once, that he's not bad for wetting himself. He remembered her hugging him and giving him a bath before tucking him back into bed.

While distracted in his memories, Church didn't hear Caboose get up, but he yelped as he felt the rookie easily scoop him up out of the wet bed, carrying him to the other end of his bedroom. Squirming and growling, Church was held down to the ground, Caboose holding him still. The older man wanted to scream, to fight this, but Tucker would wake up and see, and Jesus Christ, Church would never live it down! He felt the need to cry building up inside of him again, but he fought it off, squirming desperately as Caboose began stripping him from the waist down.

"You were nice to me," Caboose announced, smiling at his pinned down his troubled leader. "So I will help you feel all better again."

To Church's horror, Caboose yanked down Church's boxers, revealing his pee soaked privates and front. "Caboose!" Church yelped, terrified and very, very cold. "Stop it! Let me go! I swear to God, if you don't, I'm gonna-"

Caboose replied by grabbing Church by the ankles, hold them up over his head as he began whipping off Church's ass with the dry part of his leader's boxers. "Caboose! No, stop, this isn't okay! You dumb fuck, cut it out!"

Church was still ignored, and he wanted to cry as Caboose cleaned him up like a baby. The rookie soon stopped, finding Church clean enough, and tossed the boxers aside, grabbing an old, dirty T-shirt from Church's clothes pile (He couldn't be bothered to put his stuff away). He pushed it under Church's rear, soon forcing his leader's ass to rest on it. Caboose found two clothes pins by a wastebasket, which he used to sloppily pin the shirt around Church's privates. The cobalt man was definitely near crying at this point, realizing with horror that he'd been more or less diapered by Caboose.

He reached down as soon as he was released to undo it, but Caboose grabbed his wrists and held them firmly. "No." He said sternly, not amused by his leader's antics. "You made a mess, so you need to be safe in-case you make another!"

Church glared at Caboose, blood boiling as his heart raced with fury in his chest. "I'm not a baby!" He almost screeched, undoing the diaper before Caboose could stop him. "There! Now quit it!"

All was quiet for a moment, Caboose just staring at Church's dick and balls, which had been released from the diaper. The T-shirt laid under him, making Church feel like a baby still. Without a word, Caboose grabbed Church, forcing the other to his feet in seconds. Church struggled, even more so as Caboose forced him over his knee while still standing. Church cried out as twenty hard spanks hit his ass, before Caboose let him stand, the older man immediately rubbing at his light pink cheeks. Church stared at Caboose, absolutely shocked.

"The fuck, did you just spank me!?" Church asked, lowering his voice when he thought he heard Tucker groan two rooms over. "The Hell was that for?"

"You were being very mean!" Caboose declared, picking back up the T-shirt. "I am trying to be nice, but you will not let me!" His voice softened, puppy-dog eyes returning. "Please, Church... I want to help..."

With an exaggerated groan, Church submitted to lying back down on the floor, if only to avoid getting spanked again and waking up Tucker in the process. As much as Church hated it, he doubted he'd be as quiet if he got another round, and Tucker was a pretty light sleeper... he had no other choice. Caboose smiled at Church, making the leader want to vomit out of spite, but he remained still as Caboose diapered him again, this time with an old towel. The feeling of the towel on his dick and balls was annoying in Church's opinion, but whatever pleased Caboose, the better.

An hour later and Caboose was asleep again, so, ever so quietly, Church unclipped the diaper once more, sighing with relief when it was off. He knew the risks, the slowly dying sting from earlier still making him cringe when lying down, but he was far too stubborn to wear a diaper all night long. Besides, Caboose was being paranoid. He'd only wet himself once, and it had been Caboose's fault to begin with, so what was the point!? Church threw a blanket over himself on the floor, having retreated there to sleep while Caboose took his damp bedding.

The cobalt soldier sighed into the night, eyes occasionally glancing at Caboose. He'd never know... God, Church prayed he'd never know.

* * *

"Yo, guys, you fuckers up yet?" Came a loud voice at around seven the next morning, rousing both Church and Caboose from their slumber. Tucker sounded agitated, meaning he'd had a hard night sleeping. Church silently hoped he hadn't heard anything too specific. "You guys were loud as fuck last night!"

"Shut up, asshole!" Church shouted back, throwing his alarm clock at the door, hearing a successful crack as the machine broke against the door. "Give me another hour!"

"Tucker..." Something in Caboose's tone made Church still, realizing he was fully exposed. "Please give us two hours... Church is sick."

"Shit, is he!?" Tucker asked, a loud gag being heard outside the door. "Aw fuck, so that's what reeks! I thought it was piss or something!" He started walking away, the patter of his feet disappearing down the hall. "Later then, guys!"

It was quiet, painfully so, until Caboose glared at Church, making the older man gulp. Church wasn't exactly afraid of Caboose, but ever since Tex died, he'd been acting... funny. Almost as if he was being possessed. Combined with the events of the night before, Church was on edge, ready to run and take off if Caboose tried anything. He acted a second too early. Church was up before Caboose by a mere second, running for the door. At this point, he didn't care if he was stark naked from the waist down, Tucker could fucking deal with it!

Caboose was faster though, catching his leader by the ankle. As he was dragged towards the bed, Church turned and got a good look at Caboose's eyes... since when were they purple? Ignoring his leader's complaints, Caboose pulled Church across his lap on the bed, the older man writhing in both fear and anger over his subordinate's knees. Caboose, strangely enough, grinned, the purple in his eyes dark and terrifying. 'Do it', O'Malley whispered in Caboose's head, the AI grinning in the back of his head, electronic glee ringing through Caboose's bones, 'Punish him'.

As the first spank hit Church's rear, he bucked, surprised at how much it hurt. Yeah, twenty in quick succession had stung like a bitch, but just one smack had him whining all over again. "I am just trying to be your friend!" Caboose yelled, voice somewhat distorted. Church knew that voice... but who was it? "Why are you being so mean to me? I just want to help!"

The smacks kept coming, the sting driving Church mad. He squirmed in earnest, trying to get away, but he was pinned to the rookie's lap. "Caboose, please stop, I'm sorry!" Church yelled, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Goddammit, I'm fucking sorry, okay? Cut it out!"

"You are still being very mean!" Caboose declared, switching to using a slipper from off the floor, the sound now cracking through the air. "Please do not be mean anymore, Church! This hurts you a lot and I don't want to hurt you anymore!"

Church howled, kicking out violently in pain. "Then stop! Please, for the love of God, STOP!" Church's voice had risen incredibly in pitch, his squealing now loud and terrified.

Caboose didn't respond. If he'd been in the right frame of mind, he would've stopped after the first three spanks with his hand, but O'Malley had taken over, and the violent purple in his eyes told the world this was far from over. The SMACK SMACK SMACK sound boomed through the room, Church starting to sob openly in the quiet of the bedroom. He'd never hurt this bad, yeah, his dad had spanked him once or twice, but that was one or two smacks as a toddler. This was a whole new level of pain, and Church couldn't see an end anytime soon.

Embarrassingly enough, the thing that finally broke Church and 'Woke Up' Caboose, was when Church wet himself, having not been given the chance to go yet that morning. The sobbing increased by quite a bit, and Church went still, unable to kick and scream any longer. Caboose, snapping out of it, stared in horror at his best friend. Dear God, he'd really done that to him!? Church's ass was dark red, with hints of blue and black starting to show. Caboose's lap was soaking wet, but he didn't care, he only threw Church to the ground, his hands shaking violently.

"I am so sorry!" Caboose screamed, loud and terrified of himself. "I... it was the mean man, Mr. O'Malley! I-I-I-" He ran out of the room, sobbing louder than ever before.

Church whimpered as he got on his knees. Everything ached, even the shit that shouldn't. He was so disgusted with himself. Not only had he cried like a baby during the spanking, but he'd wet himself to boot! The man soon stood, shivering in the early morning cold of the small bedroom. Hesitating only briefly, he clipped the damned towel around his diaper area himself, terrified of what Caboose might do otherwise. Standing up, Church rubbed his bottom, hissing loudly and gritting his teeth at the awful ache and sting in his ass. The towel only made it worse.

Crawling under his blankets on the floor, Church curled in on himself, silently wondering if one of the Reds would break in and shoot him to death. He hoped so. Anything was better than this.

* * *

By the time Church woke up, it was around three in the afternoon. Tucker was still hanging out at Red Base, by Church's guess, so the cobalt leader stayed lying on the floor. His ass still hurt like Hell, and he still felt like shit from the inside out. After another few minutes, the man started to get on his knees, feeling weak and useless. He yawned, still drowsy as he examined himself in the mirror of his bedroom. His eyes were still red and puffy, the emerald green looking dead and empty. Dark bags hung low under his eyes, and his face was bright red with dried tears. He was a mess.

After a moment of staring, Church stood on shaky legs, his bottom burning in protest. Church turned around, pulling down the towel diaper enough to gaze at his rear end. His ass was still bright red in places, but brown bruises were starting to form in more abused areas. He stifled a whimper at the sight, tugging back up the garment despite the awful pain. Pulling on a T-shirt and sweatpants, Church sighed to himself, knowing he'd have to leave his room sooner or later. He gazed at his sheets, wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine.

Church piled the sheets into his arms, and, as an afterthought, grabbed his Pistol off his dresser. He wasn't about to be defenseless if Caboose was still angry with him. Tiptoeing out of the room, Church made a point to keep his distance from Caboose's room, immediately retreating to the laundry room. Piling his clothes in the wash, Church sighed, leaning on the washing machine as he stared at the ground. He was starving, not to mention thirsty after all that crying, but he didn't have the heart or courage to enter the kitchen. He had no idea if Tucker or Caboose was in there or not.

"I'm such a pissbaby." Church told himself, glaring at his bare feet. "I can't even take a few hits... goddammit, I'm really fucking worthless, aren't I?" He wanted to punch himself, or even shoot himself, but once again, he didn't have the courage to do it. Or was it fearfulness he needed? He had no idea.

"You are not bad." Caboose suddenly said, walking into the room. He looked to have been waiting for Church, hiding around the corner. "I am the one who is bad. I hurt you... I am sorry."

Church was, in that moment, tempted to say yes, yes, Caboose was the one who did wrong and therefore was the fool in their encounter. However, he knew he'd heard right when Caboose had yelled it. O'Malley. O'Malley wasn't dead after all, it seemed. Made sense, seeing as Caboose was such a loveable giant most of the time, he never made a show of feeling anger, much less acting on it. Church, for a moment, felt sympathy towards Caboose. It was like when Tex had first been implanted... how she'd hurt him so many more times than usual... it was Omega all over again.

"You're not bad, dumbass," Church silently judged himself for cussing at Caboose, but tossed that thought away. His ever running conscience was being a dick again it seemed. "It's O'Malley being an asshole in your head, nothing you can fucking do about it."

"But I was very mean and hurt you lots!" Caboose explained, arms flailing. Church could almost see the inner adult in Caboose, the one spilling out facts and reasons on why he was a monster, the one hidden behind many walls of ignorance and built up walls of defense. "You did not deserve that, but I did it anyways!"

"It was Omega, Caboose." Church repeated, the urge to growl bubbling into his throat, but he forced it down. He would not yell at Caboose, not while they were both sad, abused, and utterly hopeless. "He's just... I know it's bad, okay? I know what Omega can DO to people... you're not bad though, okay? I've SEEN what bad people look like, what they ACT like. You're not a bad person, Caboose. You never were." He sounded sappy, he thought, but he refused to let himself believe that for very long. These were the things Caboose needed to hear. "And, whatever happens... I guess I'm still your best friend."

"Really?" Oh God, yeah, Church REALLY regretted adding that best friends bit. Caboose would never let him hear the end of that, like, ever. "I really am your bestest friend in the whole universe?"

"Um... okay, let's not go overboard here, buddy." Church ordered, backing off a step, only to bump into the washing machine again, reminding him all too early of his latest failure. He froze up on instinct, that dread filling him.

There is still, Church noted, a chance that Caboose could go full O'Malley on his ass again. The cobalt space marine gulped, his ass clenching in remembrance of the abuse it'd suffered not a full day ago. Church tried to fight back the whimper, but it came out anyways, low-key and weak. The man breathed slowly, adrenaline fighting to control his terrified and damn near frozen body. Caboose was so very close, too close, and that young and beaten part of Church reacted to it, training from his early childhood telling him not to speak, or he'll be damaged.

Caboose was staring at Church, eyes big and full of concern. Church never acted like this. Church was meant to be angry, fierce, and stubborn. This wasn't like Church. The O'Malley part of Caboose lit up, a cloud of purple, poisonous gas in his veins, blooming through his body and firing off commands to his body. 'Make him submit,' O'Malley ordered, tone low and devastating to Caboose's eardrums, 'Make him yours'. Caboose resisted the feeling, fighting back the gas of electronic evil, but O'Malley was so very strong... it hurt so bad...

"Leonard..." Oh God, oh God! Church knew that voice, could remember O'Malley, a dark voice in a pretty blonde's mouth, curling out and bleeding into his throat with each painfully hickey on his neck. "Come here, Leo. Let's have some fun... just like old times..." Caboose was getting closer, so much closer, until his chest was in Church's face, hands exploring the shorter man's body, fondling him. "You look so pretty. Even in this body... you're still so perfect. You remind me of something, something so sweet... like candy."

Church remembered candy. A treat his nanny was giving him on a hot summer's day for cleaning his room, a slobbery mess on Caboose's mouth while watching some dumb kid's show, a delectable cream on Tex's skin during a kinky game on shore leave. The thoughts melted and smothered Church's mind, reminding him of too much at once, of too many close calls and misdirected insults, of too many bad dreams and good nightmares, of too many funerals and too many terrible nights full of worrying. Would she come back this time, would she love someone else, would she-

Oh God. It's O'Malley again, Caboose's teeth trailing dangerously and awfully down Church's chest, his T-shirt gone, left on the floor to leave him bare and defenseless. It's Caboose. No, it's O'Malley, get it right! Church squirmed, awake again, battling the terrible arousal trailing like strawberry jelly down his back, after some stupid kid at his lunch table in third grade decided to trick him. It hurts, it feels so good, God dammit, Church wanted it to stop, to stop feeling so good and so beautiful and so very sexy. He didn't want this, didn't want it at all!

"God, you're so hot..." O'Malley's voice was thick, and Church could tell he had squirmed his way into Caboose's nerves, nestling into the rookie's arousal like a joyride at a carnival. "Goddammit, I want it... I want it so bad, Leo. Moan for me, you bitch!" The feeling of having his head cracked on a washing machine was not new to Church, and the pain that followed was almost too familiar, a mother who doesn't care enough to hold him afterwards. "Moan like you did for Tex, moan for me and submit!"

The moan that finally broke free, that shattered the atmosphere of the room, destroyed Church from the inside out all over again. He burned, hissed as O'Malley groped his well-beaten ass, licking trails of saliva over the fresh hickeys on his bare neck, droplets of blood sticking to Caboose's tongue. Church ached, he ached so damn bad, and the feeling of a hard-on stretched the towel diaper so painfully, he wanted to cry. He got his wish, tears trailing down his face as O'Malley commanded Caboose to yank down Church's pants and rip off the towel, humping his beaten ass.

Church damn near screamed, the ricochet sting of his ass burning into his very core, eating him alive. O'Malley finally processed enough to get Caboose's jeans off, along with his underwear. And then it was there. O'Malley slammed into Church without mercy, a train crashing into a cave entry that's far too small, scraping and beating into it. Blood oozed from his anus as O'Malley tore into Church's asshole, and Church screamed, the sound loud and painful. O'Malley grabbed at Church's dick, jerking the cobalt soldier off without a hint of consent.

As soon as Caboose came, he let go of Church, the other coming as soon as he let go. Church fell in a heap to the floor, sobbing outright as the stickiness bore into his very soul. O'Malley grinned, satisfied with his work. "I'll be visiting you again soon, Leo." He promised, gone just like that, still leading Caboose to his room.

Just before he could pass out, Church heard Caboose scream, loud and horrified. He then closed his eyes, a ball of anguish forming and coiling in his stomach.

* * *

**A/N: This got really heavy... oh well, I needed to update soon anyhow. Hope you enjoyed! Please R&amp;R!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	5. Illusive (Sequel to Secretive)

**Illusive**

**Part 1 of 2**

**Warning(s): Slightly Referenced Infantilism, Diapering of an Adult, Urinating, Psychological Abuse, etc.**

**Description: Secretive AU. What happened to Agent Washington after Project Freelancer fell apart? Even in this universe, it's rare that anyone remembers him until it's too late. It takes a great spirit to heal, and an even greater one to remember who they were before they were broken. Agent Washington is nothing like he used to be, but people who break are put back together all the time. He's just glad someone remembered him.**

**"Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable." ~Franz Kafka**

**A/N: Here's another bit to my Secretive AU! There'll be another part later on, but hopefully this will suffice for now! Please R&amp;R, it'd mean the world to me!**

**...**

There was too much movement, too many people talking, pacing, prodding, asking. It was too much to handle. It didn't help that Washington couldn't handle anything in his condition, not that they thought he was conscious. They thought he was asleep, but they were wrong. Agent Washington was very much awake, and he breathed like a rabbit cornered by a wolf, or a street cat locked in a cat-carrier in an Animal Control van. The Freelancer pretended to sleep, maybe even tried to in order to ignore the reality of the situation, but a wetness in-between his legs under his power armor kept him from finding any peace, not to mention the AI in his head. Epsilon was like him; awake. Epsilon breathed in sync with Washington, thinking and feeling as he too awaited their fates. Non-solidified shivers and whimpers ran up and down Wash's spinal cord like fingers on a harp. Epsilon was scared- no- terrified.

They both were. Washington hid it better, if only because the numerous drugs pumped into his veins kept his voice from screaming out for her, kept him from clawing his own skin off to find her underneath, kept him from- it kept him from thinking too hard as well. Thinking gave him a headache, or was that Epsilon? Wash had no way of knowing. Epsilon wasn't as calm as Washington's drugged mind wanted him to be, an erratic voice begging Wash to stand, to make his numb legs run and move and escape from that Hell. Washington couldn't though, was so tired he could hardly breathe. His eyes were closed as he lied on a medical bed motionless in a room of movement, of blurs and numbers and words that never made much sense to begin with. Wash never liked doctors. Epsilon didn't seem to either.

"We need to remove Epsilon immediately!" The Director boomed, and if Wash could've moved, he would've flinched and drawn back, away from the voice. "The damage has been bad enough. If we don't remove it, we might lose Epsilon!"

"Sir, what about Agent Washington?" The Counselor questioned, closer to Washington, his hand on the half-conscious Agent's shoulder, fingers pressed in just enough to be found almost comforting. It wasn't to Epsilon. Epsilon remembered the Counselor. "Shall I contact his loved ones?"

"Don't bother. Agent Washington is an orphan. No one in the UNSC will question what happened to him." The Director explained, and Wash felt a twinge of hurt from the comment, felt like it was almost an insult to be called an orphan by the Director. "For now, we'll remove the AI. We'll move on from there.

"No!" Epsilon screamed, in the back of Washington's mind, terrified and clinging to Wash's neural implants, like they might somehow save him. "Don't let them take me! David, please! Don't let them take me! We need to find her, please, we need to find her!"

"Sir, Epsilon is already connected deep into Agent Washington's implants. Removing him could cause permanent damage to Agent Washington's nerve endings." The Counselor warned, gripping the table Wash was on, slim fingers wrapped around paper hospital sheets.

"We have no choice, Counselor. Either we remove Epsilon now, or we lose them both." The Director deadpanned, turning to someone Wash couldn't hear quite right from where he was lying. "Doctors, remove Agent Washington's AI Unit at once. And for God's sake, change him before you put him in Recovery!" He left the room, Wash feeling the Counselor let go of the table to follow after his employer.

As Wash finally began to black out, the doctors got the operating room ready again for another surgery. Epsilon sobbed in Washington's implantation, knowing he was doomed, knowing Wash was his last and only hope. "Look, I know I'm gonna die now, but... please, just save her. Don't let them get her, too." The AI begged, just as Wash finally drifted into a deep, deep sleep.

...

When Washington finally awoke again, he was alone in a large, furnished bedroom. The Freelancer felt incredibly nauseous, a feeling not entirely unknown to the man, but was still a bit uncomfortable for obvious reasons. He shifted, surprised to find his armor gone, and sat up slowly, looking around the unfamiliar bedroom with military-trained eyes. A large mirror covered a good portion of one of the walls, which Wash immediately recognized was made of one-sided glass. He stared at himself, finding his own face foreign at first glance. He'd never found himself attractive, as he could never keep a lover for very long, was always too distracted to listen to them talk, couldn't sit still long enough to love them the way that only he alone could love. Well... there was one, but it hurt to think about him.

Looking around the room more, Wash was surprised by how strange it seemed. It was colorful, too colorful to be a room on the MOI, that is, unless he was in another Freelancer's room. He didn't recognize it though, the pastel blue walls with white clouds painted on them making his stomach twist uneasily. He'd had nightmares like this, except where he was trapped in a baby crib, wrists and ankles chained to the posts while his diaper got changed by someone he didn't recognize. They always managed to shake him up afterwards. Shaking his head to rid it of the painful memories, Wash yanked the pastel blue blanket he was under off of his body, looking himself over to see what he could possibly be wearing if it wasn't power armor. Two years of almost nonstop power armor made civilian clothing seem alien and unsafe.

Underneath his sheets, Wash found himself to be dressed in a blue hoodie (The hood strings removed, he noted) with grey lettering reading 'Maria Juniper's Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane', and a plain white diaper with classic yellow straps. The Freelancer shifted uneasily upon seeing the childish clothing, but was even more put off by his hoodie. Maria Juniper's Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane? What in God's name was he doing there? Was he... no, no way in Hell was Wash crazy! Heck, Wash figured this was all some sort of sick joke pulled by the others. Yeah. It was probably just York and the guys trying to lift everyone's spirits with a harmless little prank on dumb Wash! Even if it did seem too mean to be York's doing... no, it couldn't be real. Wyoming probably planned it, that's all!

The Freelancer almost chuckled as he stood up, silently wondering who of the Freelancers lost the battle of who would have to change him into the stupid diaper. "Alright, guys! Jokes over! I've been fooled! Come on out!" Wash called, searching around the room for his friends, his panic hidden behind fake humor.

No one answered, so Washington searched until he found a big, white door, which he knocked on calmly at first, smiling at the white-painted steel. "Good one, York! Come on, I'm done with the joke. I haven't eaten in hours, man. Let me out."

Still, no noises came. Washington's nerves began to unwind, the child-like fright of being abandoned surfacing to the forefront of his mind. "Guys, I'm done kidding around. Please, just let me out! I dunno what I did, but come on! Open up, York!" When that didn't work, Wash began to knock harder, still only using his left fist. "York? Wyoming? 'Lina? Come on, let me out!"

Frantically and running out of options, Wash began pounding his fists against the door, screaming at the top of his lungs for someone to answer. No one was coming for him, he thought, terrified to his very core by the idea. Everyone had left him, probably forgotten about him already. They'd replace him, replace him with someone new, someone bigger and stronger and smarter. Someone who'd understand how jet-packs work, and knew how to keep his balls from getting stuck on a grappling hook, or keep his fucking mouth shut when ordered to! Wash screamed louder, banged harder and harder until he could feel deep, aching bruises on his fists, but he didn't care, he just kept yelling and begging for help while damaging his own skin.

Suddenly, the door opened, pulled sideways into the wall as four men wearing white clothing and security uniforms grabbed ahold of the Freelancer, being surprisingly gentle. Wash screeched, not wanting to be held back and kept from his friends, who he believed to be on the other side of the opened door. With the strength and skills built into him by Project Freelancer and the UNSC, Washington broke away from the security guards before they could possibly drug or detain him. The Freelancer ran, ran like he'd never run before, managing to get out the door and down the hall. The whole inside of the building was eggshell white, but Wash ignored it in favor of finding a way out.

Without much time to think, Wash chose to go right and was rewarded with a long, holographic list of patients being held on his floor, which he discovered to be the tenth floor of the mental hospital. With unsteady eyes, Wash looked up and down the list, ignoring any names he didn't recognize, until he found his own. He'd hoped it wasn't true, but it was written right in front of him. 'David Alexander Cooper - Room 57. Instructions: Handle with special instructions from doctor'. Wash was stunned, unable to move from where he stood, even as two of the four security guards from earlier finally caught up to him, still for whatever reason handling him gently as they each took an arm and led him away, a needle in Wash's arm sending the Freelancer spinning back into unconsciousness.

...

Washington sat curled up on his bed two hours later, re-made by someone while he'd been knocked out, and kept his distance from the two guards now at the opposite corner of the room, both chatting as if they were at some business meeting or party. It bothered Wash, but not like the needle from before. He stayed away from the first guard, who still held said needle from earlier, still pushed in from when he'd injected Wash before. The Freelancer wasn't taking any chances, and as a result didn't want anything more to do with that damned needle. The men paid no attention to him, seemingly fine with being near the 'Criminally Insane' patient. That would take some getting used to, Wash mused, but he had a lot to get used to if this whole hospital deal was anything to go by.

"Do I at least get a phone call?" It was the first thing Washington had said since the guards had caught him. And for a moment, he expected no answer. Until one guard spoke up.

"Is there anyone you wanna call, buddy?" The guard asked, voice sickeningly laced with sweetness that made Wash's blood boil. "I can get you a phone. Would you like that?"

"Where is the Director?" Wash questioned, put off by the guard's easiness. Security guards in hospitals were supposed to be evil and gruff to him, not sweet and patient.

The guards shared a look, before the second one looked to Wash, pulling off his helmet to smile warmly at him. He had light brown hair, along with bright yellow eyes. He looked to be a Patch Baby, like Wash was. "Don't worry about that. Right now, it's your health that matters! I'm Nelson, and my buddy here is Robinson!"

"I'm not interested in names. I need to speak with the Director immediately. Where is he?" Wash again asked, feeling anger bubbling in his chest.

Nelson gave Wash a concerned look, as if he were an orphaned child asking where his parents had gone. Wash had memorized that look a long time ago. "I'm sorry, David. The Director isn't here right now, but the Counselor should be here in a little while to see you."

Wash didn't respond to Nelson, staring at his feet to distract himself. He felt tired, the drug having been a muscle suppressant that kept him from being able to stand, much less move much. With no movement to distract him, Wash had been remembering more of what had happened, before he'd been taken to the mental hospital. He remembered being implanted, a voice in his head that was too unstable to focus on for very long, and the Director ordering for Epsilon to be removed. After that, everything went dark in Washington's mind, leaving little room for remembrance. He figured more would come in time, but for now, he was trapped in an immensely confusing place, not getting nearly as many answers as he wanted. He silently hoped the Director would come and explain why he was there.

"Do you need a change?" Robinson suddenly asked, snapping Wash away from his own thoughts. The Freelancer stared at him, eyes wide in shock. "A change. Is your diaper dirty?"

"I..." Washington was stunned, unused to being asked such a question. Sure, every once in awhile after a mission the Counselor might've asked, but... to have a guy he didn't even know ask such an embarrassing question made his stomach ache. "Um... no. I'm okay."

He wasn't really okay, but like Hell was Wash telling those guards that. He wanted to keep a very thick wall between him and the staff of the hospital, for sanity's sake... er, more like IN-sanity's sake, but whatever. "Alrighty then. Tell me when you do, buddy." Robinson replied.

Wash hadn't planned on responding, but felt he needed to upon being called by such a childish nickname. "I'm not your 'buddy'." He made sure to inform the guard, eyes glaring at the black visor of the guard's helmet. "Don't call me that."

Robinson was unaffected by Wash's irritation, and shrugged in response to the Freelancer's words. "Sorry, I'm ordered to call you 'buddy' when handling you. Orders are straight from your doctor."

"Let me talk to my 'doctor'." Washington ordered, a fire not entirely uncomfortable burning like charcoal in his gut, twisting and smoking to stay alive as anger and determination filled the void uncertainty made in the Freelancer's heart and soul.

"Was that a threat, David?" Nelson asked, taking the needle from Robinson to hold up to Wash, silently threatening the Freelancer with another dose of muscle relaxant. Wash shivered, drawing back, like a kicked dog to it's master. "Do you need any medication?"

"You heard Dr. King, Nelson. We can't dose him up again." Robinson warned, giving his partner a stern look from behind his helmet's visor, which he seemed determined not to remove. "Put that thing down before he has a panic attack."

"Right... sorry, Robinson." Nelson muttered, sounding honest to God regretful before he stuck the syringe into an empty pocket on his security armor. He looked to Wash, smiling again at him. He reminded Wash of Florida. "Sorry, buddy. Didn't mean it, really."

Washington didn't believe him, but it wasn't like it mattered. No one there cared about him, they were only holding him there until he either died or turned normal again. Thing was, Wash was having trouble remembering what 'normal' meant, and how exactly to act like it. He'd never been a good actor, except for his impressions, so he figured escaping would be difficult. No matter, he had all the time in the world it seemed like. He still held on- no- clutched to the idea that another Freelancer might save him soon. He nailed it into his skull as a hook to hang onto, to swing on while he waited. They'd come soon, he figured, as he felt his diaper grow awfully warm underneath him. He could only hope the Counselor would have answers when he arrived to finally see him. Maybe then he'd gain some more hope.

...

As soon as the Counselor arrived at Maria Juniper's Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he was greeted by two security guards. They were both female, and smiled sweetly upon seeing the man. The Counselor followed them into the elevator, which took them to the ninth floor of the facility, where the Counselor was taken to one of the therapy rooms. The room had very little furniture, having only a long, eggshell white couch, a brown arm chair, a steel coffee table screwed into the floor, and potted plants on either side of both doors on opposite sides of the room. On the couch was Agent Washington, who was curled up into a ball. The Counselor took a minute to analyze Wash. Wash had short, bright blond hair that went just below his ears, grey-blue eyes that matched tap-water, and terribly pale skin with dark brown freckles covering every inch of his skin. He was a perfect example of a Patch Baby. Well, almost perfect. No Patch Baby would ever be called 'perfect' by anyone in society. Except by each other maybe.

"Hello, David." The Counselor greeted, smiling warmly at the mental patient, who showed no signs of addressing him in return. "Are you enjoying your stay so far?"

"No." Wash bit out, not providing anything more for the Counselor. To be honest, he was terrified of everything that had gone down thus far, and Epsilon's voice still rang through his ears every so often, warning him to not trust them. They'd kill him for what he knew.

"No?" The Counselor repeated as he took a seat in the arm chair, folding his hands over his lap to seem less threatening to the severely damaged Freelancer. "Do the people at this new facility intimidate you, David?"

"No." Wash again replied, glaring at the Counselor, his arms tightening around his curled in legs, the lack of room for his ribs making it hard for him to breathe properly. "They're just fine. They're just too nice to me."

"Too nice? What do you mean? Is anything these people are saying triggering you, David?" The Counselor questioned, leaning in more towards the patient, who he was hoping he'd been making a break-through with.

"They're not like most security guards. It's like... it's like I'm a kid to them here. I'm not being treated like an adult." Washington admitted, something in the Counselor's presence breaking his tough guy act enough to relax him just enough to talk more openly.

"Is this because of your diapers?" The Counselor asked, and upon earning a nod, he sighed deeply to himself. "I understand you are troubled by your current situation, David. But you must understand, it is for your own good. You need to get better, David. Mentally and emotionally."

"It's making it worse!" Wash almost shouted, completely unfolding, though he didn't dare stand up. He'd been warned prior to the Counselor arriving that any signs of aggression would lead to guards injecting him immediately with more muscle relaxant. "I'm not a fucking baby!"

"I'm very aware of that, David." The Counselor promised, unaffected by Washington's bubbling anger, which was all focused on him. "However, this specific hospital has very special ways of curing their patients. They are only trying to help you, even if it means regressing you to an earlier time in your life, where you were less afraid and conflicted by your emotions."

"There wasn't ever any 'safe' in my childhood." Wash deadpanned, unimpressed by the Counselor's mediocre explanation. No way was he going to believe that bullshit, he was a grown man for God's sake! He wasn't some unstable little kid anymore.

"Which is why you're under very special care here, David." The Counselor explained, nodding at the younger man with a terrifyingly kind smile. Wash didn't like people who were so nice. They always hurt him in the end, if the Freelancers were anything to go by.

"Can I just leave? I'm fine, honest I am!" Washington insisted, looking fearful as the Counselor just continued to act passively to everything he said. "I just wanna see my friends again. I swear, I won't have another breakdown. Just please... let me go."

"David-" The Counselor began, voice lighthearted. It filled Washington with a new brand of pure, unadulterated hatred. "-I understand how difficult this must be to deal with, but you must understand that the other Freelancers are gone."

Wash stopped, his hatred suddenly gone cold, an ice block stuck where he figured the knife scars were, too. Chilling and unforgiving, it filled Wash with dread. "... Gone? What do you mean 'gone'? They didn't leave the MOI, they were all there before I was moved!"

The Counselor didn't budge, smile becoming an almost sad frown as he looked Washington in the eyes, sending chills up the Freelancer's spine. "Agents Texas, New York, North Dakota, South Dakota, Florida, and Wyoming have all gone MIA. As for Agent Carolina, she has gone KIA. They're all gone, David."

Wash was shaking, and he swallowed around a small lump in his throat, heartbeat increasing as he tried to soften the blow, tried to make sense of it, tried to tear it apart and find a weak spot that he could count on. "Maine!" He shouted, excitement driving him to stand. "Maine! He's still gotta be there!"

The Counselor was dead silent, closing his eyes in thought, making Washington's breath catch in his throat. "... He's gone too, isn't he? No... no, it's worse. Isn't it? Somehow..." He fell back into his seat, the palm of his left hand finding his forehead to comfort himself with. "... Somehow... it's worse."

"Agent Maine has gone Meta, David." The Counselor filled in, sounding regretful, if only for a moment. But then, the rage returned in Washington, melting the ice and boiling the water it left behind, the heat driving him to jump out of his seat like a wild animal and attempt to attack the Counselor, to kill him even.

"You bastard!" Wash screamed, even as Nelson and Robinson came rushing in, injecting a needle of muscle relaxant into his arm. However, the Freelancer was too pumped up on adrenaline, and tried to rip past the guards to murder the Counselor where he sat, seemingly smug to Wash's eyes as he sat so calmly in his seat, unaffected by Washington's outburst. "You motherfucking bastard! You let this happen! You made them leave me for dead!"

"No one opened the doors for them, David. They chose to leave by their own accord." The Counselor promised, standing up as two more guards ran in, joining Robin and Nelson in very gently securing Washington, who was still in a panic as he tried to rip the Counselor apart, but he was just out of arm's reach. "I'll be seeing you again next week. Be good, David." With that, the Counselor left the room, the sounds of Wash finally collapsing in his wake.

...

Patience.

Patience is the key.

It didn't take long for Washington to realize this, though, he wished he'd learned it earlier. It had been three months since his hospitalization before he'd realized why nothing was working. Life in the hospital was hard. Not because they were bad to him, but because of how demeaning it was! Washington had never felt so embarrassed in his life, with all the babying driving him up the wall, it was no wonder he'd almost lost it. Before he found patience, he'd been nothing but a nuisance to the staff, not that he'd cared much. He refused to let them come within a few feet of them, fought them with changes until they had to sedate him for them, and once even bit a man for trying to bathe him. However, finding patience had definitely improved his life.

Although Wash was still keen on keeping his dignity intact (If that was even possible anymore), he'd started to accept it in a way, no longer attacking the staff with words and fists. They seemed delighted by his change, convinced that Wash was improving with his mental health. You see, Washington had a plan, and a good one at that: 1, act like everything was okay and that he was accepting the situation, 2, convince the staff and the Counselor that he was completely healthy again, and 3, search for and destroy everything the Director ever built-up in his military career. It was a pretty solid plan in Wash's opinion, save for the fact that he had no idea how exactly he'd prove himself to be sane to the Counselor. The Counselor was a smart cookie, and Wash doubted he would be easily swayed by his little performance.

But in the mean time, Wash would have to endure living in an insane asylum... which included getting used to people cleaning him everyday.

"You've been really good lately, buddy." Robinson commented as he changed Washington, who lied unmoving on the changing mat. "I really think you're improving."

"M'hm." Wash mumbled back, not really paying attention. He'd been practicing just zoning out during the more embarrassing procedures. "I guess so."

"All done!" Robinson announced, clipping the cloth diaper pins in place. The hospital seemed to prefer cloth diapers to disposable diapers. "You can get up now, buddy."

"Thanks." Wash managed, because actually thanking a security guard for changing him like a baby still felt foreign. It wasn't sane, he figured. "I'd like to stay in my room today." He announced, which didn't surprise Robinson.

"Got it. I'll tell the warden, you just hang out in here then." Robinson agreed, leaving Wash alone in the room. He stopped, however, at the door, giving Wash a sad glance. "I know it's hard, Wash-" He rarely called Wash by his preferred nickname, so he got his attention right away. "-But one bad start ain't the end of the world... call me if you want out."

Washington watched Robinson leave, before standing up on slightly shaky legs, pulling on his sweatpants as second instinct before walking back over to his abandoned bed, lying himself down to brood. He liked lying in bed most days, letting himself get lost in the constant stream of 'Allison, Alpha, Allison, Alpha, Allison, Alpha' until his head hurt too much to continue. He was used to it, found it almost calming. The calm in the storm, as they say. It was calm because it wasn't, as weird as that might be to understand, but Wash didn't need to understand it to admire it. As his head got lost in thought, he couldn't help but remember what Robin had said: "One bad start ain't the end of the world". Easy for him to say, he hadn't been the one almost choked to death by a psychopath.

That was the thing Wash hated the most about this place by far. They treated him differently than the other psycos, leading to a lot of jealously from the more poorly treated patients. So of course, during Wash's third week at the hospital, when he'd been released from his room to socialize with the other inmates, they took full advantage of the situation. For Wash, that meant being dragged into a bathroom when the guards weren't looking and getting his head dunked into a toilet while a psyco called him every terrible slang word in the book. Luckily, Wash wasn't above using his military training to fight against far more under-trained men, and had lashed out without a moment's hesitation as soon as the psyco had flushed. The warden hadn't been happy, but Wash had gotten away either way.

Afterwards, Wash kept his distance from any of the other patients, who were intent on making him as miserable as humanly possible. The guards didn't comment on the incident very often- maybe because they felt bad, maybe because they knew it was their fault for not treating Wash like everyone else- but when they did, it was quiet and only referenced, not flat out explained. No one mentioned that he'd nearly drowned, which Wash was thankful of. He'd been one of the lucky ones, said a smaller patient once to him who was also bullied, because most patients that were Wash's size got attacked all the time. Wash supposed he should've been happy about that, but was too disgusted by the fact that it happened in the first place.

If he ever got out- a strong 'if'- he was gonna put his foot down against the ridiculous treatment of mentally disabled criminals.

Just when Washington was beginning to doze off, a siren started to go off. At first, he thought it was just another fire drill- those weren't very often, but at least the hospital tried to be prepared for that sort of thing- but once he heard the rush of people down his hallway he knew exactly what was going on. Someone had either gotten out or gotten in. Either way, Wash was on his feet in seconds, shaking slightly as he ran to his door, banging on in it intensely to gain some form of attention. If he was very lucky- people said he had a thing going on with luck these days that was either good or bad- than whoever was running for it or breaking in would take pity on him and let him out.

As Washington continued to knock on the door, he heard two, swift rasps to his door, before all went silent. Wash froze, before repeating the other person's pattern with two equally as swift rasps. "Knock knock." A voice asked from the other side, hard to hear yet very familiar. "Come on, mate. It's simply. Knock knock."

Washington swallowed around a lump in his throat, shivering as he tried to gather enough courage to speak up to the intruder. "U-Um... who's there?" He offered, not knowing if that was what he should've responded with.

The other voice laughed loudly in response, making Wash smile, if only to try and clear the tension that he'd built into the air. "Wire." The person finally responded, unlocking the door by the sound of it from outside.

Washington wanted to jump up and down and scream with joy, but he kept his cool. "Wire who?" He asked, feeling himself grow more and more hopeful. He couldn't remember who exactly owned this voice, but he knew, somewhere in his brain, that it was a friend.

"Why are you here, mate?" Wyoming asked, revealing himself as the door swung open, helmet held under his left arm as he gave Wash a victorious grin. His mustache was as well-tended as ever, making Wash feel just a bit better. "Well, we'll get to that later on. Come, we must be on our way. They'll send back-up if we're not out of this building in the next five minutes."

Washington couldn't help but grin, nodding to show that he understood before following Wyoming towards the nearest elevator. He was so nervous, yet so happy all at once. Someone had come back for him! They hadn't forgotten! They'd sent Wyoming to come rescue him so that the team could be together again! Wash wanted to hug Wyoming as tightly as possible, or cry from happiness, but he kept such urges at bay long enough to help himself get free. Wyoming was silent as he lead the way through the hospital, occasionally talking to himself- or to someone- about security details and things Wash couldn't understand. What was he even going on about? The Meta? Completing the objective? It was very confusing.

However, Wyoming was right in his element as he rescued Washington from the asylum. While he was no master at martial arts or explosives, Wyoming made an absolutely astonishing sniper/hit-man/undercover agent. Wash supposed it was a necessity for Wyoming to have these skills, as Carolina had once explained to him that Wyoming was originally a top-of-the-line hit-man in the outer colonies. Apparently, he'd eventually been caught, but instead of serving his several life sentences- the number always changed when Washington asked- Project Freelancer had talked the tiny governments of the outer colonies into releasing Wyoming into their custody.

Wyoming hadn't joined Project Freelancer by choice, due to these circumstances. Well, he sort of had, as he had to agree to this custody change, but Washington had no idea if the entire mess was legal or even consensual. He didn't ask though, as he'd never known Wyoming as well as everyone else. There's just never been a chance- the age difference between Wyoming and the others made socializing hard- so Wash had stuck with his peers and Wyoming watched from the shadows with Florida. Even as they ran to the bottom floor of the hospital, floor littered with dead/unconscious guards and nurses, Washington wondered in silence if either agent had seen this coming. He supposed they had.

"Almost home free." Wyoming muttered to himself, drawing Washington to pay more attention as they neared freedom. He could almost smell the grass outside, it was so damn close. "Just a little longer... Gary, mate, what in the devil is taking so long?"

"Unforeseen security errors." A voice answered back through the hospital's speakers, making Wash jump due to surprise, having not expected the voice. "In other news, I have successfully taken control of the asylum's communication systems. Hello, Agent Washington, I am glad to see that you have been rescued without harm."

"Who are you?" Washington asked, feeling very, very small. In his mind, the voice felt like it belonged to a giant, maybe ten to eleven feet tall. "And how do you know who I am?"

"Oh, you two haven't met?" Wyoming asked, scratching behind his head as he took a second from unlocking the door to smile bashfully at Wash. "Sorry, lad. Guess you and he never got the chance to chat back in the Project. This is Gamma, but I just call him Gary."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Agent Washington." Gary promised, though Washington had the nagging feeling that the AI was lying, for whatever reason. "I remember you well from Project Freelancer. I sincerely apologize for the damage caused by Epsilon."

Wyoming glared up at the ceiling as Wash shivered in response to a series of flashbacks triggered just by the use of Epsilon's name. "Really, Gary? We agreed not to mention that... that rampant AI while retrieving Washington."

Washington started to zone out as memories flashed through his brain. _"Don't say goodbye." Allison. Dead. Gone. She left you, left HIM, left a life behind that you promised her would be safe and away from a war but - "Get the FUCK off the table, kid!" Dad. Maybe dad? You don't know, you only know the hand that connects with your left cheek stings before you can get away from it, sending you crashing to the floor, now an endless abyss. - "... I hate goodbyes." Allison, no, don't go! You love her, you love her so damn much, she's like nicotine in your lungs and cocaine in your blood stream. She is a paradise built on cancer. - "Wash, no, I'm fine, leave me the Hell alone, okay?" Connie won't look at you, won't look at anyone, content with her arms around her torso as she looks away, contemplating her own fate. This is, you realize, the moment she chose him over you.-_

_"What do you MEAN she's dead!? You come back here, David! Do you fucking hear me? What do you mean she's DEAD!?" South is scared. Scared of losing her, of losing Connie to someone no one had ever expected. She's gone and you're the bearer of the bad news because North is talking to Tex and since when is North talking to Tex? - "You make things worse, ya know that, right? You're making it worse. Just... come on, man. Can ya let us handle it?" York didn't mean to sound so... mean. He didn't, not at all, he's just angry and hasn't had any coffee and where's Carolina when you need her anymore? Where is ANYONE when you need them these days? - "Really, Wash?" North sounds mad, in his special 'I'm not mad' kinda way that sends shivers up your spine and makes you regret asking him for advice because when has North helped you with anything since he got Theta?-_

_"Leonard, please, put the camera away. Caroline's gonna hear you!" Allison, again, pushing you away with promises to return once the war is over. It will be over, right? It has to end... for her sake. For the baby's sake. - "Don't go... not yet... please, *******, please!" Who is this? Allison? Connie? You're not sure, no one can be, not with a head as fucked up as your's, Leonard Church. Or is it Agent Washington? David maybe? - "Agent Maine has gone Meta, David." The Counselor is firm, and not very good at counseling you as you get the news, shaking until another doctor comes and pokes you full of poison to shut your mouth and keep you still - "There are about a million things that can go wrong... you ready to get wrecked, kid?" Texas is kindness, in the darkness, for a half second as the Covenant close in on the two of you, alone, without 479er or anyone as back-up. You are alone, Agent. Or Leo. You don't care anymore... you are who you are, even if it's not you - "I'M SORRY!" Goodbye, Leonard-_

...

"Agent Washington! David!" It was Gary talking as Washington blinked up blearily at the ceiling of a car, feeling nauseous as he finally came to, feeling like he'd been swimming or drowning- either one really- as the car seemed to spin constantly.

The dizziness stayed as Washington tried to sit up, only to have a big, strong hand push him gently back down to lying in the back seat of the car he was in. He looked outside, squinting as he saw hundreds upon hundreds of big, empty wheat fields. The sun was shining and the world outside of the car was alive and beautiful. Washington swallowed, looking around inside the car for any clues of what might have been going on. Wyoming was in the backseat with him, his hand holding Wash down while Wash's legs rested on his lap, keeping the Brit pinned. There was no one driving- something that alarmed Wash, since the car was clearly moving- but a big, blueish spark from the radio system clued in that it was Gary's doing.

"Are you quite alright?" A voice asked, and Washington turned his head to stare at Wyoming, realizing that it was the older man who was speaking to him. "You had a bit of a panic attack there, lad. Fainted right on the spot. None to worry though, we escaped without much delay."

"Escaped?" Wash rasped out, struggling to escape his early morning-like drowsiness, which made it hard to stay awake, much less think straight. "Escaped from where?"

"The hospital." Wyoming explained, sitting up as he coughed into his fist, calling for Wash's attention as he readied his tale. "You're in far deeper than you were ever meant to be, Agent Washington. As I'm sure you've deciphered, Project Freelancer is- was, I'm not sure if it's still going as strong- the project wasn't nearly as perfect as they promised it would be. People got killed and assassinated. Georgia and Utah were no accidents- poor fools knew too much, so I and Butch were ordered to take them out- and Connecticut was just a lass who was too damned smart and stealthy for her own good. It was no surprise when she was killed by Agent Texas during her escape with the Insurrectionists."

Wyoming continued on, looking a little paler as he told more and more to Washington. "To be honest with you, when you arrived, me and Butch didn't expect anything like this to happen to you. You seemed too naive, too preoccupied with your life to realize how many dangers were around you. To be quite honest, we were glad for it- one less kid getting his arse beaten by the lies of the Project- but we should've known better. We let you slip under the radar with our monitoring, and you got, well-" He gestured to Wash's lap, referring to the diaper he had on under his clothing. "- You get the picture. Either way, we let you do as you pleased, and by the time we realized what Epsilon could do... you were already in surgery."

"Afterwards, the Director had Epsilon ripped from your neural implants- damn fool hoped you would die in the process so evidence would be leaked of Epsilon's damage- but you really are a cockroach, aren't you?" Wyoming smiled softly at Wash, but still looked depressed as he told his somber story. "You survived the surgery. And since they couldn't euthanize you without there being too many witnesses, they shipped you to the nearest insane asylum. Figured that you'd suffered enough brain trauma to pass off as a mentally unstable character. The Counselor, however, still seems intent on doing... something. I have yet to find out what. It's due to his transmissions to Recovery that I found you, Washington."

It was then that Wyoming stopped, finished with his tale, and took a moment to really look Washington in the eyes. Wyoming's eyes were much different than Wash's, being a heavy hazel color, which seemed to act as an opposite to Wash's gunmetal blues. Wash stared at Wyoming, feeling terribly conflicted. On one hand, he was glad to know that all of what had happened hadn't gone unseen by the other Freelancers, on the other, he was immensely disappointed that it appeared that Wyoming was going solo, and judging by his story, Wash doubted he was in contact with anyone from the Project, except maybe Florida, but Wash had a feeling that he was just as off-the-radar as most everyone else.

"So everyone's just... gone?" Washington finally asked, finding his voice as his mind still struggled to work out the story in his mind.

"Some are dead." Wyoming admitted, looking away as he swallowed, probably feeling far more uncomfortable than Wash. Then again, he probably hadn't shit himself in the last few minutes, so Wash doubted he felt QUITE as uncomfortable as him. "Carolina was killed by the Meta, at least, as far as we know. To make an even longer story than the last one short: North kidnapped South, Florida is seemingly nowhere, Maine went Meta, York beat by arse- only because he got the drop on me- and then took off with Tex, Tex has gone completely rough like me, and I'm teetering on the edge of hit-man-ship as of late. You haven't been forgotten, though. North and York... they talk about you sometimes, on a private channel. Well, not THAT private anymore. The coding was so amateur, I had to listen in. Damned idiots." There was a tenderness to Wyoming's voice as he insulted the others, making Wash smile just a bit.

"Did they know where I was- I mean, before you broke me out?" Washington asked next, feeling now was as good a time as any for questions. He doubted they were even close to their next location or hiding spot from the UNSC or Project Freelancer.

"I believe Tex did." Wyoming muttered, more under his breath talking to himself than as an answer to Wash's question. "No way to be sure, though. She rarely uses names on the channels out there, and North and York haven't mentioned you being in an insane asylum before. Sorry, lad. Again, I only found you due to the Counselor's conversations with Command in-between trips visiting you."

"Well, for what it's worth... thanks for saving me." Wash finally replied, feeling heavy as drowsiness again started to drive him closer and closer to unconsciousness. He yawned- rather loudly- and squirmed his body to adjust better. "God, I'm wiped. I just slept, too."

"Well, don't pressure yourself to stay awake, lad." Wyoming suggested, absentmindedly running his hand over Wash's pants covered legs, trying to usher the younger man asleep. "We're still a long, long ways from our destination. I hope you like city-life, David. Because that's where we'll be for quite some time."

Washington simply nodded in acceptance to this to Wyoming, allowing sleep to claim him as he again yawned aloud, curling in more on himself. He felt dirty, sweaty, and gross, but the feeling of true freedom gave him enough assurance and comfort to find rest. He closed his eyes, drifting...

...

When Washington next found himself conscious, he wasn't in the car anymore. He grumbled something lost even to himself as he shifted, trying to find a position that was comfortable wherever he was resting. He looked around, eyes squinted as he tried to make out the situation. It was nighttime, it appears, as the moon was up outside of an old, half-broken window. Wash yawned, realizing as he looked around more that he was in what appeared to be an abandoned factory. He groaned, sitting up on what he noticed to be a long, old, ripped up couch that was probably found in a junkyard. He rubbed his back, temporarily missing his old bed as he remembered where he'd been before his rescue. Speaking of rescue, he looked around for Wyoming, trying to find the old Brit.

Lying on the ground a few feet from the couch was Wyoming, sprawled out with his armor in various areas around him. His mouth was partially open as he snored loudly- not nearly as loud as Maine used to- in the near-empty factory. By his side was his sniper rifle, fully loaded with the safety off. For exactly seventeen seconds, Washington stared at that sniper rifle and considered standing up, taking it, and blowing Wyoming's head off. It would be easy, considering Wyoming was notorious for being a heavy sleeper and would never even see it coming. But at the same time, Wash knew better than to try and kill off his only connection to the project, who also happened to be his savior.

The blond rolled out of bed carefully, landing on sock-covered feet before padding around the factory, trying to look for something to do/eat. He was wired now that he was more awake, and longed for something to pass the time with. He paused as he circled around where the obvious living area Wyoming had made up was, looking up at the broken window longingly. He hadn't seen much of the outside during the car ride over, and hadn't seen anything of the outside during his hospitalization. Feeling a newborn aching in his bones, Wash hesitantly began climbing the many big, wooden/steel crates leading up to the window, which was a good ways off the ground.

Reaching the top of the crate tower, Washington gasped in awe, staring out at the ocean laid outside before him. Wash had no idea why this planet had an ocean- for all he knew at that point, he could have very well been on Earth- but the dark blue mass before him was absolutely breath-taking. It brought back memories of the east coast, of living in a once-in-a-lifetime kind foster home. He remembered that place well, remembered campfires on long summer nights, remembered stray cats coming right up to him to be pet and fed, remembered eating hotdogs on the beach with his foster sister, remembered two parents fighting to keep him, remembered them losing, remembered them watching him go and saying-

"-Washington?" Wash jumped as he heard Wyoming stir below him, the Brit obviously worried for the recently rescued agent. "Where in the devil did you- oh." He looked up at the tower of crates, finally finding Wash. "What are you doing up there?"

"Looking around." Washington offered solemnly, still somewhat lost in all of the emotions that the fresh ocean air and smells gifted him. "The ocean is nice here. Are we on Earth?" He gave Wyoming an almost hopeful look.

"Afraid not, lad." Wyoming admitted, standing up and stretching before climbing up to sit beside Wash, overlooking the ocean with his companion. "Not sure where we are, really. Gary got us a ship and I flew us to the nearest colony Hellhole I could find. It's a temporary thing, I swear." He sounded certain on the matter, not wanting to sleep in old factories and warehouses for the rest of his life. Out of all of the Freelancers, Wyoming was by far the most needing of a proper estate.

"It's not bad, though." Washington told Wyoming, glancing at Wyoming before focusing all of his attention on the harbor outside the warehouse, and less on the ocean itself. "This is a nice harbor. Probably sells fish in the morning."

"If this planet has fish." Wyoming added, not to discourage Wash from speaking, but more to keep the boy from getting his hopes up. "If they do, however, I'll look into getting us one before we make our leave. There should be another planet a little ways away from here, one where I can get plenty of 'jobs'." The way he said 'jobs' made Wash shiver. "You don't have to come along, Washington. I understand that you're tired, and need more stable footing than I can provide you. However, I can make sure you have a roof over your head and food to eat. Hell, I might bring you on a job once you're feeling up to it. It's your choice."

Washington continued to watch the harbor and ocean, wondering silently what had ever become of that kind foster family. Did they ever think of him? Did they miss him? Had they really wanted to adopt him? Wash sighed aloud, tired to the bone as numbness consumed his mind, trying to cope with all of the emotions and changes around him. Hesitantly, Washington finally turned to look Wyoming in the eyes, his own dark as he turned away from the moon, his shadow making him appear dangerous and unrelenting. Wash supposed that he was all of those things, but he also supposed that Wyoming was now his friend and Wyoming was willing to protect him.

"Okay. I-I'll go with you then." Washington finally agreed, swallowing around a lump in his throat as he looked away, getting lost in his thoughts again.

Wyoming nodded in acceptance, sighing as he tried to release his own pent-up frustration. "We'll leave at dawn. I'm going back to bed." He announced, standing up to stretch and return to bed. He looked over his shoulder at Wash, giving him a cautious look. "You should rest as well, Washington. I have a feeling a lot is in store for us in the near-future."

Washington watched as Wyoming went back to lying on the floor, surrounded by his armor and weapons. Wash, in the end, chose to stay watching the ocean for the rest of the nighttime, too afraid that these would be his last glimpses of the sea.

'_Patience_.' Washington thought out of seemingly nowhere, smiling to himself as he sighed with content, watching as the moon descended and the sunrise began. '_Patience is the key_.'

**...**

**A/N: Not nearly as dwelling on the whole diapers thing as I had wanted it to, but the hospital and occasional hints definitely played a role in this. I'm hoping to get the next part out soon, but knowing me, who knows when it'll be out? Please R&amp;R please, it would mean so much to me!**

**~Supercasey.**


	6. Aggressive (Part 2 of Sequel)

**Aggressive**

**Part 2 of 3**

**Warning(s): Slightly Referenced Infantilism, Diapering of an Adult, Urinating, Psychological Abuse, Self-Emotional Abuse, etc.**

**Description: Secretive AU. What happened to Agent Washington after Project Freelancer fell apart? Even in this universe, it's rare that anyone remembers him until it's too late. It takes a great spirit to heal, and an even greater one to remember who they were before they were broken. Agent Washington is nothing like he used to be, but people who break are put back together all the time. He's just glad someone remembered him.**

**"Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable." ~Franz Kafka**

**A/N: PART TWO HAS COME! This AU is killing me from the inside out. I'm in love. Thank you to everyone so far whose written reviews/comments thus far, it means so much to me!**

* * *

"Looks like there'll be a storm tonight." Wyoming commented, boot-covered feet silent as he ran through the city, traveling by rooftop as he made for his next target. He was off to kill some millionaire scumbag who'd gotten his wealth via the underground slave trade. "If we're quite lucky, we can hurry this up and be home by midnight."

"That seems unlikely." Gary responded, but Wyoming, who was used to the AI lying to him, knew better than to trust Gary's hypothesis. "The condensation in the air is still rising. You should be at home, Reggie."

"Need to keep bread on the table." Wyoming reasoned, looking for a good sniping point to shoot from. "Seeing as I'm the only one working in our household, I need to work extra in order to sustain the fa- team." He changed the word quickly. He couldn't afford to think like that.

"I work." Gary announced, but went ignored as Wyoming continued to check the rooftop he was stationed on for cameras and anything else that might prove to be a threat to the mission. "Are you sure this is not a personal vendetta?"

It wasn't, but Wyoming didn't tell Gary that. Wyoming didn't actually care what the guy had done. Sure, there was a sense of justice that came with taking down corrupt and evil people that existed in the universe, but Wyoming wasn't a hitman for the thrill of it. He was in it for the income- a notably big income at that. The ex-Freelancer crouched down on a ledge as he chose a suitable spot to shoot from, reloading his sniper rifle as he aimed down-sights at the party in the building across the street. With sight inside, he looked around the main level of the party being held in the opposite building, looking for his target. The target was by a snack-table, as expected, enjoying a martini while he chatted up some woman who'd come to chat with him.

Wyoming smirked, chuckling to himself. "Hey, Gary, knock knock." He could hear Gary chuckle as well in his mind, sparking and gritting as he analyzed the answer to Wyoming's joke before the Brit could even say it aloud.

Even though he'd already found the answer, Gary answered nonetheless. "Whose there?" He asked, grinning in a way that only someone who had two minds at once could truly ever describe.

Wyoming licked his lips, feeling his fingers run over the dented metal of his prized sniper rifle nervously. "Orange."

"Orange who?" Gary replied, appearing behind Wyoming as a small, tiny hologram.

Wyoming pulled the trigger, watching not a moment later as his target's head exploded. The women around him screamed with fear and horror, running away as the blood, bone marrow, and brain of the millionaire splattered on them. "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" The Brit finally asked, running away at top speed from the scene of the crime.

Gary sighed, but still seemed to enjoy the comedic joke. "You have already said that one fifteen times this month." The Artificial Intelligence confirmed, sounding extremely disappointed in his partner.

"Have I?" Wyoming wondered aloud, slowing down his running to a soft jog, until it became casual pacing. There were hardly any cops in the city of Bramble, but Wyoming was still incredibly careful when it came to leaving jobs.

The British man soon found his motorcycle, parked where he had left it before the assassination, and hopped aboard, revving the machine up before he took off into the city. It was around eleven-thirty that night as Wyoming made his way through Bramble, the street lights and billboards lighting up the streets and vehicles like it was New Years day. The ex-Freelancer ignored all of these things, preferring to focus on the road as he drove to the farthest drug store from the assassination. Parking near the entrance to the drug store, Wyoming hopped off his bike, glad to not have worn his armor that night for his mission. He'd collect the money in the morning from his employers, but right now, Wash needed him to get some supplies on the way home.

Ever since his rescue, Agent Washington had been... how could Wyoming put it? Shyer than usual? Probably. Back in Freelancer, Wash had surely been a shy one, but he'd more than made up for it with his wits and cockroach-like abilities. Wash didn't do much other than clean when Wyoming was around- Wyoming was a surprisingly messy person and Wash couldn't stand the mess- so Wyoming wasn't exactly sure how the lad was mentally. Sure, Washington was incredibly active considering his last accommodations, but he still hardly said a word, preferring to make himself useful by cooking and cleaning. Wyoming simply figured it was Wash's way of coping as well as his way of showing his thanks to the older Freelancer for saving his life.

Wyoming, putting these thoughts away for later, hurried into the convenience store, looking around for the needed supplies. Poor Washington hadn't been able to request them to Wyoming's face, having left a note politely requesting he retrieve them on the way home from a mission, but Wyoming knew just by how urgent the note was that Wash desperately needed more of the supplies. Walking around the store, Wyoming soon found the adult diapers in the back of the convenience store, where it was kept along with more inappropriate items. Wyoming grabbed two boxes off the shelf, carrying them under his arms as he made for the next aisle, where baby wipes were, only to run into a familiar shadow.

Tex stood looking away from Wyoming, but right away, Wyoming knew her appearance was no coincidence. The blonde woman had long, flowing hair, residing over her left shoulder, while she wore a black, leather jacket, a Dallas Cowboys shirt underneath her jacket, blue jeans with several holes and tears, and black, military-grade army boots. The AI-made-human had her arms crossed as she stared at the packages of basic baby supplies on the shelf in front of her, before turning to look Wyoming in the eyes, her gunmetal blue eyes much like Washington's almost identical pair. Tex seemed to study Wyoming, taking in how he wore a black hoodie, blue jeans, and converse shoes instead of SPARTAN power-armor.

"You look younger." Tex began, uncrossing her arms as she placed one hand on her hip, observing the older Freelancer. "Rare to see that in each other these days."

"I suppose you have a good reason for tracking me, Allison." Wyoming mused, feeling the way Gary shivered and hid behind barriers in his mind. Omega was nearby. "It's not very common of you to drop in on me on such short notice."

"It's all over the network: you saved Washington from an insane asylum, right?" Tex seemed unconvinced by her own information, looking the Brit up and down. "Didn't take you for the superhero type, Wyoming. So, what's your angle? Why'd you really save Wash?"

"He was in danger. Maybe I'm just being nice." Wyoming offered, walking past Tex to find the baby wipes. Tex followed behind him, as expected.

"Maybe you have an angle." Tex again suggested, following behind Wyoming as he searched for supplies for Washington. "You're not a hero, Wyoming. If anything, Wash is a setback for you. You and I know how to end this war one way or another: you and I also know that Wash sure as Hell ain't the answer." She tilted her head, continuing to study the older man.

"He was in danger." Wyoming repeated, trying as hard as possible not to look at Tex. It was hard for anyone to make Gary anxious or afraid, yet Omega and Tex's presence made it easy for the AI in Wyoming's skull to shiver and hide away. "Besides, it wasn't like anyone else was going to go look for him. We left him. Guess I'm the only one with a conscious.

Suddenly, Tex was far too close to Wyoming, standing between him and the shelf holding the baby wipes. "No one in the project had a conscious, Wyoming. Not even Wash. I don't know what you're up to, but I sure as Hell know this isn't some innocent charity case."

Wyoming reached around Tex, giving her plenty of room to stab him, but she didn't, giving Wyoming a sense of safety as he successfully retrieved a package of baby wipes. "Maybe I'm not doing it to be nice then. Nonetheless, this matter is none of your business, dear Allison. I see Omega is still with you, by the way."

Tex seemed startled, as a deep, indigo hue took over the gunmetal blue in her eyes, making her look ten times more intimidating than before. "The Meta is looking for you." Tex explained, voice distorted by Omega's involvement with her thoughts and words. "He'll find you."

"I'm well aware." Wyoming promised, carrying his supplies to the front of the store, where a far too peppy young woman stood behind the counter, looking very excited. She smelled slightly like daisies. "Yes, hello, I'd like to buy these if you don't mind."

"Sure thing, sir!" The woman chirped, scanning Wyoming's things while Tex stood beside him, arms crossed with a glare on her face. The woman took notice of Tex, and grinned even more than she had before. "Oh! Is this your girlfriend?"

"Yeah-" Tex confirmed, before Wyoming could speak, slamming down a chocolate bar from the counter's snack rack on the check-out desk, giving Wyoming a smirk. "-Wanna treat me, babe?"

Wyoming made to put the candy bar away, but stopped, thinking better of it at the last moment. He even grabbed another bar out of the snack rack , placing it down on the desk beside Tex's candy. Washington could use the extra blood sugar. "This should be all." He assured the check-out lady, shooting Tex a warning glare to not take anymore sweets.

"Alrighty then, that'll be fifty-four dollars and eighteen cents!" The woman announced, taking Wyoming's offered credit card, which was slightly scratched up in certain places. "Thank you, and have a lovely day!" She continued, waving goodbye as Tex and Wyoming left the store.

"That bitch was high." Tex declared as she and Wyoming left the drug store, hands on her hips again as she stretched outside, looking around thoughtfully. "It's getting pretty damn late. You should be getting home, Reg."

"I was planing on it. And where are you staying at, might I ask?" Wyoming questioned, allowing Tex to follow him to his motorcycle as he tied down the boxes on the sides, storing the baby wipes and Wash's candy bar in his messenger bag with his sniper rifle.

"None of your business." Tex promised, giving Wyoming a devilish smirk as she took her candy bar from him, giving him a wicked wink. "I'll be checking up on you again soon, Reg. You take care of that kid, okay? He's one of the last ones." With that, she ran off, the purple still shining in her eyes.

"He is consuming her." Gary announced, finally appearing beside Wyoming, his glow soft and nightlight-like in nature. "I can hear him in her voice. She does not have much longer until he has control of her."

"She's stronger than she appears, chap." Wyoming reminded his AI, popping on his helmet as he got onto his motorcycle, Gary again disappearing to nest in the back of Wyoming's consciousness. It had been a long day: he deserved a break.

And so, Wyoming drove out onto the road, finding the highway with ease. He was incredibly tired, and yawned loudly in his helmet. God, he hadn't slept well in weeks, had he? While Washington wasn't trying to be a burden, there were times Wyoming craved sleep, and Wash's almost constant nightmares and breakdowns made such rest difficult to find. But it was fine, Wyoming decided. He'd known the risks and troubles that would come when he'd decided to rescue Wash, and even if those troubles seemed far too prevalent for Wyoming's liking, he knew that Wash's gratefulness was eternal and would gain him the younger ex-Freelancer's complete and total respect and loyalty for a long, long time.

A car horn blaring was what knocked Wyoming out of his daydreaming. At first, he'd thought it was the car behind him, but looking to his left, he realized that it was a group of college-age looking teenagers honking their horn at him. "Hey, baby-boy! You need a change!?" One kid mocked, referring to the adult diapers strapped to Wyoming's motorcycle.

Wyoming glared intensely at the teenagers. He'd dealt with kids like them before, but somehow, it felt more personal. It had been an honored code to not tease Washington during the project about his condition, yet these fucking children didn't give a shit about that, not that they knew of course. "Bugger off!" The Brit finally shouted, giving them the middle finger.

"Aw, gonna cry home to Daddy?" The driver of the college car asked, honking his horn again to gain attention from other drivers. "Have fun sucking cock, bitch!" With that, they drove off, leaving Wyoming in the dust.

For a moment, Wyoming considered yanking out his sniper rifle and shooting the driver in the head. It wouldn't be hard for him, but the chances of getting caught were high. Cursing under his breath, Wyoming decided to try and forget about it, but it was terribly hard. He hated kids these days- war had taken their respectable fathers away, so they committed crimes, joined gangs, drank liquor, got high, and raped people- so much so that Wyoming had almost refused to join Project Freelancer, as many young adults were in it already. But in the end, freedom won out over the death penalty he would've been given, leading Wyoming to join Project Freelancer to escape that dreaded needle.

Wyoming almost chuckled. He'd been forced into Project Freelancer all because he'd been a successful hitman, but here he was again, as a successful hitman. There was some kind of irony surrounding his situation, but Wyoming didn't bother looking for it.

* * *

When Wyoming returned home, he wasn't all that surprised when an empty coke bottle came hurtling at him, to which he dodged, watching the glass bottle shatter against the wall. He eyed the room, finding Agent Washington nowhere to be found. He sighed internally, but made no audible sound that could even suggest his displeasure with Washington's behavior. The kid already felt guilty enough with Wyoming watching over him, there was no need to stress Wash out with the idea that Wyoming was upset with him. Making no outward comment on the mess, Wyoming strode into the apartment's small, almost spotless kitchen. Taking the broom and dustpan from beside the fridge, Wyoming walked back over to where the glass had shattered, dusting up the remaining pieces. Didn't want to risk Wash or himself stepping on a shard after all.

As Wyoming dusted up the glass fragments, he heard a soft shuffle from the hallway. Wyoming, trying to appear unaware of his roommate's presence, set down a small, handheld mirror he tended to carry in his bag. Setting it at the right angle against a book left on the floor, Wyoming was able to get a good look at Wash. Washington was standing in the doorway of the hallway, making no move to interrupt Wyoming's work. The blond's hair was scruffy and untamed, while his gunmetal blue eyes looked a bit glazed over, like he'd just stopped crying or was just about to. He wore a pair of Wyoming's sweatpants (They were far too big on him), one of Wyoming's hoodies that reached all the way to his mid-thighs, and white socks that covered his dirty feet. Underneath all the baggy clothing, Wyoming knew Wash was extremely boney. It made Wyoming feel guilty whenever he thought about it.

"I'm sorry." Wash suddenly whispered, voice a bit scratchy from his earlier crying. Wyoming was certain now that Wash had been crying just before he arrived. "I... I didn't know it was you..."

"Who did you think it was?" Wyoming asked, not looking directly at Washington as he continued to use the mirror, still crouched on the ground sweeping up the glass shards.

"Tex." Wash deadpanned, swallowing before he continued. "She came right after you left for your mission this morning. We talked for awhile, but she said she needed to go take care of some things. She brought Omega."

"Agent Texas, hm? I happened upon her not too long ago myself." Wyoming replied, worry eating at the back of his mind. It was Gary, he knew, stressing over the idea of Omega being anywhere near Wash while he's still recovering from his time in the hospital and Epsilon.

"Yeah, she mentioned needing to check in with you." Wash muttered, more to himself than to Wyoming. He started to step into the living room some more now, still appearing skittish. "I'm sorry I threw the bottle at you."

"Apology accepted. But I must ask: if you pondered that I was Texas, why did you try to attack me when I came in?" Wyoming asked, though he feared that he already knew the answer. Well, Gary had a few ideas, and Wyoming didn't like any of them.

"Well... I was scared that Omega was going to attack me." Washington explained, sounding matter-of-fact at the idea of Omega being aggressive towards him. "So, when I heard someone opening the door... I sorta... panicked."

Wyoming nodded at this. He didn't blame Wash for his fright towards Omega. Later on, the assassin figured he'd have to question Tex about her visit with Wash- he suspected her chat with him was what caused his obvious crying- but for now, Wyoming focused on cleaning up the rest of the floor. Certain that there was no glass shards left to threaten their well-being, the Brit carried the dustpan into the kitchen, noticing that Wash followed from behind, as if waiting for the hitman to say something more. Wyoming pretended not to notice as he emptied out the dustpan into the trashcan, afterwards setting the dustpan and broom beside the fridge once more. Without a word, Wyoming then strode to the kitchen table, picking up a still-full medicine container. He scowled at Washington.

"You never took your medication today." Wyoming stated, looking disappointed in the younger ex-Freelancer, who looked away from him, appearing guilty. "I keep telling you, David. It's for your own good to take these." He only ever called Wash 'David' when he was annoyed, making Wash look even more ashamed.

"I don't need any medicine." Wash reminded Wyoming, as it was his usual response to whenever he failed to take his pills. "They make me feel way too tired and dizzy."

"They're meant to help you relax and rest." Wyoming pointed out, still unaffected by Wash's arguing. "I understand that you're no fan of medication- I hate popping my own pills whenever I need sleep- but they are to assist you in recovering. Don't you wish to recover?"

"I'm not a little kid, Wyoming!" Washington argued, glaring full-on at the hitman. Although his eyes as of late tended to appear dull and depressed at first glance, when he was truly upset, they seemed to shine with a stubbornness that drove Wyoming insane. "Just 'cus I wear fucking diapers doesn't make me three years old! I'm not just gonna take some pills 'cus ya ordered me to: I need a better reason than 'they'll make me better'!"

"You're missing the point." Wyoming groaned, leaning back on the kitchen table, one hand rubbing his temple while the other still held Wash's filled-up pill bottle. "If you don't take these pills, you're at risk of severely injuring yourself. I'm not always around to check on you and watch over you: if you were to die all because you didn't take your medicine, I'd feel guilty about it for years. Please-" He held out the bottle to Wash, urging him to take it and have his pills. "-Don't make me lose another Freelancer."

That was a low fucking blow, and it made Washington feel conflicted. One half of him wanted to smack that bottle out of Wyoming's hand or pour the pills down the sink, while the other rationalized with Wyoming and understood that his medicine was indeed a necessity. Sighing and still feeling wary, Wash eventually took the pill bottle from Wyoming, hand shaking with the urge to throw the damned thing at the nearest, hardest surface he could find. However, Wash feared Wyoming's reaction to such childish and inappropriate behavior, and although he didn't want to, the blond screwed open the bottle, popped out the correct dosage of three pills, and tossed them into his mouth, dry-swallowing them. He scrunched up his face as they went down, the sensation of them still being in his throat feeling uncomfortable.

"Should've had a cup of tea with that, hm?" Wyoming teased, a wiry smirk on his face. Wash only scowled angrily at the Brit, unamused by the older man's joke. "Thank you for doing that for me, Washington. It takes a good amount of worry off my mind when I'm not home."

"Humph!" Wash huffed, but his insides glowed with the warmth of the praise Wyoming gave him for his cooperation. He didn't like making Wyoming disappointed in him, especially after he so selflessly saved him. It made Wash feel good when Wyoming was proud of him.

"How about I stop talking about it and I make us a pot?" Wyoming asked, more to himself than to Wash, who still had his arms crossed stubbornly over his boney chest. "Now then... Earl Grey or green tea?"

"Green." Was Washington's simple reply before he sat down, lulling his head on the table as his medication slowly began to flood his brain. Before long, he was fast asleep.

* * *

Wyoming awoke a few nights later, for once not because Washington was screaming. In fact, Wash was sleeping soundly beside Wyoming in their shared bed, curling in on himself as he snored softly in the dark room. Wyoming sat up, searching for his loudly vibrating cellphone. Light poured in through the blinds from the street lights outside, casting golden rays of artificial sunshine into the lonely apartment. The Brit yawned, finally finding his cellphone on his night stand. He unlocked the phone with a practiced thumb, soon finding a little icon that explained that Wyoming had a new text message. Odd. He had no idea who in the Hell would be texting him at this time of night, as he had no current employers that needed to pay him or anything like that. Carefully, Wyoming clicked the icon, popping open the text.

**[This is York. Can't call: Wash might wake up. Text me back.]**

Wyoming scrunched up his face. How in the devil had Agent New York of all Freelancers gotten ahold of his phone number? Deciding it was a question better answered later, Wyoming scooted out of bed, padding out of the room on sock-covered feet to retrieve himself a cup of tea. He pocketed his phone, unknowing of whether or not to text York back. On one hand, Wyoming longed to hear that the other Freelancers were still alright, on the other hand, he and York in particular had never gotten along very well. However... wouldn't Wash want to be insured of York's safety? Hell, it might even speed up his recovery! Then again, if York wanted Wash to know he was around, he would've probably called instead...

All of this was terribly confusing, so much so that it was giving Wyoming a headache. He hurried to one of the cabinets above his kitchen's stove, digging out a box of Earl Grey teabags. He quickly set a tea kettle, taking the time he now had to sit down in a chair and think over the situation more properly. No matter how many times he considered it, Wyoming knew that texting York back was probably his best choice. He might not've liked the bloody wanker, but he was a Freelancer, just like Wyoming, and dammit all, the Brit got lonely every once in awhile. Assassinated corpses and a shy, PTSD-cursed lad weren't exactly the best choices for conversation. Settling on texting York back, Wyoming pulled back out his phone, unlocking it again to have access at it's keypad.

**[How did you get this number? This is Wyoming.]**

Of all the replies, really, Wyoming's wasn't as well-thought-out as he would've liked, but again, he wasn't exactly happy that York had gotten ahold of what he considered classified information to begin with. After all, if York of all people could get ahold of Wyoming's information, so could the UNSC, and if they got ahold of Wyoming, they could get ahold of Washington. Wyoming shivered at the thought. They'd give Wyoming that dreaded needle and lock Wash into an insane asylum for sure! The kettle sounded as soon as Wyoming's phone buzzed, causing the Brit to groan as he with one hand poured the boiling water into his teacup, and with the other held his phone to read his new message.

**[Your number? Tex gave it to me. She said she ran into you a few nights ago, along with Wash. How's Wash doing these days?]** That made sense, after all, Tex and York had been fairly chummy back in Project Freelancer.

**[Better.]** Wyoming offered, fumbling with the buttons. Unlike York, he'd never been one for texting. He preferred a nice, proper, man-to-man conversation through speech.** [And of you? I haven't much word from your people in quite some time.]**

**[We're holding on. North hasn't texted me in a few weeks, but he's still on the move with South. Tex visits some times, but she's on the move, too. Heard you're settled on some Outer-Colony planet.]** York replied. Wyoming figured as much from the others, though he was surprised to hear nothing of Florida.

Wyoming felt tempted to ask specifically about Florida, but like Wyoming, he'd been more in the shadows compared to most everyone else. **[I am. Can't tell you where, though. Can't afford for the UNSC to catch me.]**

There was a pause, before York finally texted back. **[We need to talk. For real. Walk down the street or something, somewhere Wash won't hear us. This is urgent, Wyoming.]**

Wyoming sighed to himself, considering his options. He could always wake Wash up and tell him the good news, but then again, it sounded like York was being 100% serious and needed this to be a closed door conversation. So, with a heavy heart, Wyoming abandoned his tea and Wash, pulling on a black hoodie before he headed out of the apartment. He hurried down the stairs, hand barely even touching the handrail as he nearly tripped several times. Once he was on street-level, Wyoming dashed down the street, eager to hurry it up and have his talk with York. He wanted this to be fast so that Washington wouldn't notice his temporary absence, yet he had the feeling that this would be a long talk either way.

Reaching an alleyway, Wyoming pulled out his phone, this time finding a phone number instead of a worded text from York. He dialed it quickly, hearing it hardly ring once before York picked up. "You there, Wyoming?" York sounded somewhat... older, like he'd been through more since their last encounter, but other than that, he sounded as fine as ever.

"It's me, lad." Wyoming assured the locksmith, unable to hide the slight tenderness in his voice. Try as he might to hate all of the younger Freelancers he'd worked with, he'd always felt a bit of father-like kindness when he was with them. "I'm a little ways from home, so that Washington won't overhear. Now, what's wrong?"

"Well... it's... complicated." York sounded out each word uniquely, something only a guy like him usually managed to pull off. "I'm gonna make this a three-way call. Tex'll be on in a few seconds. She can explain it better than me."

In an instant, a short buzz sounded over the comm frequency, before Tex came online, her voice entering the call. "Good to see you can follow orders still, Wyoming. I'm gonna need ya to follow orders if we're gonna make this work."

Wyoming couldn't hide the slight growl that escaped his mouth upon hearing her voice, feeling betrayal deep in his chest. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. "Whatever this is about, it better be good. I've just about had it with these shenanigans. What in the devil is going on here?"

"I'll make it simple, Wyoming. You need to leave Washington." Tex stated, sounding unaffected by her own orders. "You know as well as I do that Wash isn't gonna get any better while he's with you. Let's be honest, he might've been better off in the hospital."

Wyoming was absolutely outraged! What in God's name made Tex think he wasn't capable of watching over Washington, or that Wash would be even close to alright in that God forsaken, sorry excuse for a hospital? "What in the devil are you saying!? That hospital could hardly even be called such a thing! He would've lost his mind had I not rescued him!"

York coughed awkwardly from his end, reminding Wyoming that the locksmith was still listening in on the whole conversation. "Look, man, I know it's not the best place, but... at least he was safe there? I dunno, dude. He was being watched and taken care of. With you, he's alone half the time and he can hardly change himself. He's not doing so hot."

"Listen to York, Wyoming. He's right. Wash ain't gonna get any better while he's with you. If anything, he's getting way worse. He needs to be somewhere he can be monitored and well-taken care of. A hitman can't do that. So here's the deal: you either go home, grab what you can, and leave, or, let Wash suffer." Tex offered, making it no easy choice.

Wyoming didn't say a word for a long time, too busy staring down at his shoes, feeling lost in his thoughts. "... It's not so bad, this place." He reasoned, voice soft, like he knew this battle was already lost. "There's plenty of food, and plenty of jobs to do. He can get one, if he wants. I could help him. He doesn't have to leave."

York audibly groaned on his end, the sound of skin slapping skin- a possible face-palm- sounding from his end of the phone call. "It's not gonna help him, dude! I know you wanna help him- so do we- but we ain't gonna help him doing what we do. As much as I hate to say it, the cops and UNSC are the only safe fuckers left for him. It just won't work if you keep him. He ain't a dog, Wyoming. You can't... you just can't be his owner, man. He needs help, and not just the 'I feed you and let you live here' kind. He needs mental help, dude."

Again, a pause took place, before Wyoming sighed, shaking his head. "It won't be easy." He reminded the other Freelancers, sounding disappointed in himself for agreeing to this terrible plan. "This means that I will be abandoning him, you know. This will damage him even further. He could break. He might not be able to be saved, once the damage is done."

"Washington is strong." Tex reasoned, sounding sure of herself. "He'll find a way. Just grab your shit and go, Wyoming. Don't even leave a note. I'll... I'll call ONI to pick him up tomorrow morning. They'll help him. I know it's hard, but... he needs help. We just can't provide it to him."

"He needs a companion." Wyoming argued, but it was already over. "... Then what do I do, hm? I have a good life here. It's not easy, but it's good. What do you suppose I do about my home?"

"Would you rather kick Wash to the curb personally?" Tex asked, voice almost unfeeling. "Look, just... just leave him. You've left people before, right? It's awful, but it's important. We'll be seeing ya, Wyoming." With that, the call cut off.

Wyoming cursed under his breath, taking a moment to just stand there, phone still pressed against his ear. Then, anger and fury bloomed inside of him, until he was throwing his phone and screaming angrily, kicking a trashcan to the ground as he raged. For a long while, Wyoming simply shouted and fought, before he finally calmed down enough to know that he could attract attention if he kept it up. With this and other things in mind, Wyoming hurried back home to the apartment. He opened the front door noiselessly, glad to still hear Washington snoring peacefully from the bedroom. Even though the plan was still set in stone... he still felt conflicted. He still had a chance to just grab Wash and run, claim that ONI was onto them. That was believable enough. It would make Wash run with him.

However, as Wyoming paced in circles in the small kitchen of his apartment, he came to realize that such an idea was fruitless. Tex could come after him, lest she find out and take it personally, not to mention that York was apparently in on it, too (Though, he sounded more adamant about it in Wyoming's opinion). Sighing, Wyoming made up his mind: he'd leave. So, he very slowly began to pack his things into a large, white backpack, taking a few pairs of pants, some shirts and hoodies, a back-up phone, a large sum of cash he'd been saving, his prized sniper rifle, and the flash-drive he occasionally had Gamma in (He was resting in there at the moment). Wyoming swallowed nervously, knowing that Gamma probably wouldn't be all that happy about this new arrangement. Then again, neither was Wyoming.

Finally, Wyoming was all packed up and ready to hit the road. Sighing, he glanced at Wash, who was still sleeping soundly in their- _Washington's_\- bed. The Brit pulled on his backpack as he crouched down beside the bed, simply staring at the blond as he slept. For some reason, Wash always reminded Wyoming of Florida, if only for his usually upbeat attitude and surprising skill. Maybe that was why Wyoming was so close to waking Wash up, to shaking him awake and telling him 'Roadtrip' before driving him far, far away from this city, from this planet even. Maybe he could take him back to a planet with oceans? One with sunny beaches and seashells and overpriced hotdogs. Wyoming shook his head, knowing such a dream was useless for him. Not while he was still a soldier. Not while he still had a war to win.

"I hope to see you again, lad." Wyoming muttered, brushing Wash's bangs out of his face. The lad was in dire need of a haircut. "Hopefully, we'll both be in better spirits by then."

With a heavy heart, Wyoming then left the apartment building, took his motorcycle, and drove away into the night, never to return.

* * *

The first thing Washington registered was how cold the bed felt.

The blond shifted, feet slowly moving under the covers, trying to tap against Wyoming's. When his feet found nothing, Wash's brow furrowed, confused. Had Wyoming left on a late-night mission? Perhaps. With this hopeful thought in mind, Wash started to crawl out of bed. Something felt... off, he thought, stretching weakly as the sunshine cascaded through the window shutters. It felt like a thousands eyes were on him, and all at once, Wash felt naked in the room. He shivered, rubbing his arms as he padded towards the thermostat on the wall, checking the temperature. Surely it was too cold in the room. Wash was baffled, a few seconds later, as he read that it was 57 degrees in the room. How could that be? It felt like it was freezing!

Determined by the idea that the thermostat was broken, Wash shuffled into the kitchen. If Wyoming really was on a mission, there was probably going to be a note somewhere on the table or fridge. Washington was puzzled, however, when he found no such note on either surface. Even more puzzling, he thought, was that there was a cup of seemingly untouched Earl Grey tea on the kitchen table. The blond picked it up delicately with both hands, utterly confused. It was cold! Had Wyoming made himself a cup of tea and never drank it? Such a thing was unlike Wyoming. The Freelancer shook the thought away, setting the cup in the sink delicately. Wash continued to rub his arms until he found one of Wyoming's hoodies- a white one with a blue Hawaiian flower on it- hung over a chair.

Wash threw it on quickly, desperate for warmth, but was disappointed once again when he found it to be cold and void of any sort of human warmth, like it hadn't been worn in a long time. Hesitantly, that all-eyes-on-me feeling returned to Wash as he heard something shift just outside, near the front door. Instinctively, Washington ducked below the kitchen counter, hand going under the table. The best part about rooming with Wyoming, he'd always thought, was that the Brit was extremely paranoid when it came to the UNSC and ONI, and hid weapons around the apartment. Wash pulled out an old, beaten up cardboard box, which he opened carefully, pulling out the M6G pistol from the small container, reloading it until it had a full barrel- eight rounds. That'd be enough to down at least eight of them, as long as Wash had a steady hand and a clear shot on each round.

Careful not to make too much noise, Agent Washington propped himself up on one knee, staring at the door from around the corner of the counter. It'd make decent cover if they broke down the door and started firing, but then again, ONI was very precise about these sort of things. Connie and Wyoming's horror stories of ONI had been enough to scare Wash shitless. Sure, he was technically a part of ONI, but only because of Project Freelancer. Before PFL, he'd been nothing more than a foot-soldier who was too smart for his own good and the last survivor of his platoon- a prodigy in the wrong division according to the Director. Yet here he was, a so-called prodigy in the wrong division yet again. Oh well, Wash figured it was karma... or something similar. Act of God could be a good describer for all of this.

Before Washington could further begin to recollect his life, the door opened- as if it had never been locked, Wash thought- and three pairs of footsteps came inside, deliberately sneaky and quiet. The footsteps were heavy- the fuckers were wearing armor- and Wash realized with intense horror that he might not stand a chance. He shook that away though- Agent Washington was a survivor, not a corpse- and without warning stood up, opening fire on the squad of three. The first went down instantly, only one bullet needed to shoot through his red visor. The others were alert, and Wash leaped over the counter, falling hard as he nearly twisted his ankle on the landing. With a roar, Wash was up again, blasting past the ONI agents and out the door, jumping off the railing of his second-story apartment.

"Hey!" One of the men shouted, immediately running to the railing of the apartment complex's stairs outside, gripping them furiously. "Stop! Agent Washington, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity, man-slaughter, and-"

Washington opted to ignore the agent, lying still for a moment on the ground. People outside were already gathering around- mainly children who'd been playing games outside- watching the Freelancer curiously. Groaning and hurting, Wash got on his knees, ignoring his pain in favor of taking off into the alleyway across the street. Unlike those ONI fuckers, he'd grown up on the streets, and just because he was on another planet didn't mean he couldn't use them to his advantage. He soon met a wire fence, but started climbing over it quickly, shoving the handle of his pistol in his mouth as he used both hands to climb the fence. After hopping over it, he spat out the pistol into his hand, ignoring the saliva as he gripped it firmly and starting running onto one of the main roads of the city.

"Stop him!" One of the ONI agents ordered to the civilians near the scene, sounding close behind the short blond. "He's wanted for treason against the UNSC!"

Washington's feet couldn't stay on the ground as he looked around, cars whizzing by like bullets on the main road. Without waiting for the ONI agents to catch him, Wash dashed into the street, despite his awful luck with cars. As expected, he was immediately hit head on in the side by a pick-up truck, launching him down the street. Wash curled in, ducking and rolling until he felt himself stop. His right side feeling as if it were on fire, Wash still stood up, wincing as he realized that at least three or four of his ribs were broken. However, Washington was determined to not be caught, and continued to run down the street, this time avoiding the rest of the cars, however narrowly he did. He looked over his shoulder, eyes widening in horror as he realized that one of the agents wasn't even ten feet behind him.

Once he felt his bare feet touch the sidewalk again, Wash swung around, no longer afraid of getting hit by a car, and fired at the ONI agent. The first shot missed by a mile, but the next bullet lodged painfully into the agent's chest. The man collapsed to his knees, the bullet having hit a major artery, and Wash took that as his cue to run. Quickly and without sympathy to the fallen soldier, Washington was off again, escaping into the next alleyway. This time, when he emerged on the other side, he started running right down the sidewalk, where numerous shops were. He ran and ran, until he found a closed pizzeria that looked abandoned enough to hide in. He picked the lock quickly, escaping inside. Without a moment to lose, he ran into the back room of the restaurant, then into a janitor's closet, where he locked himself in and waited.

Outside, Washington heard absolutely nothing but the flickering of a light-bulb in the backroom. He breathed heavily, fingers twitching and body aching as he waited for the ONI agents. For a long, long time, there was no sound- the light-bulb had died- and Wash was left to simply crouch there, in the dank, lonesome little closet. He couldn't stop shaking, pistol barely even held in his hands, which were bloody from various cuts from the car accident and from jumping off the stairs earlier. What if someone had seen him go inside? What if they told the agents where he'd gone? What if they came into the backroom, opened the closet, and opened fire on Wash until he stopped moving-

-Something creaked.

Wash went still, not even breathing as he heard a door- not the door connecting the restaurant to the backroom- open very, very slowly. In came only one pair of footsteps, shaky and... soft. These were not armored boots, no, they were the tattered shoes of a civilian! Washington wanted to cry with relief, but stayed mostly still, beginning to breathe once more. Even if it wasn't one those ONI agents, the civilian could still very well turn his ass in. With this in mind, Wash subconsciously tried to shift away from the closet door. In doing so, he knocked his back into a broom, making it teeter and fall onto it's side, producing a loud, terrifying bang. Washington nearly screamed in terror, but held back, only producing a sharp intake of breath as he shivered, shaking like a leaf in horror.

Outside, the owner of the footsteps went still as well, no doubt spooked by the sudden noise. Tiptoeing, the footsteps came to stand in front of the closet door. Wash shook even harder, falling into a panic attack. This was it- he was as good as dead now. His mind raced wildly at what would happen- ONI would capture him, they'd bring him to court, the jury would vomit/gag once they saw the infantile diaper on Wash, they'd lock him into an insane asylum, Wyoming would get caught and get put down, they'd- Wash was hyperventilating as he curled in on himself, dropping the pistol as black dots speckled his vision, his head growing irrationally warm as he started to sway, feeling far too dizzy. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to lie down and sleep and die and-

"What do we have here?" An aged, soft voice asked from somewhere outside of Washington's mind, sounding kind and elderly. "And who exactly are you, boy?"

Wash tried to look up, tried to answer, but when he opened his mouth, only a desperate, whine-like sound came out, broken and terrified. The old man, as it turned out to be, stared down at Washington and tisked, looking sad as he watched the Freelancer fall into his panic attack. "That's too bad." The old man decided, head tilted to the side. "Poor man can't even speak he's so scared. Don't worry, boy... it'll be alright." And with that, Agent Washington passed out.

* * *

Consciousness was a slow process as Wash felt the nauseating blackness start to dissipate. Wash felt sweaty and tired- like he'd never even slept- yet it felt like he'd been asleep for years and years. Washington squinted as he began to open his eyes, still a bit hot and dizzy from his panic attack. He winced as pain caught up to him, yet it didn't feel quite as bad as it probably should have. Unable to hold back any longer, Wash opened his eyes, nearly gasping as he realized that he hadn't been captured by the UNSC or ONI after all. No, this was nothing like any government building he'd ever seen. The walls were covered in tattered, ugly pale yellow and light green striped wallpaper, browning with age. The ceiling was an eggshell white, again, browning with age and discolored by water stains.

The sick Freelancer looked around more, turning his head to his right. There was a window, open and with the curtains blowing in the breeze. Outside, there was a bright, blue sky with puffy white clouds, along with a clock-tower just within Washington's field of vision. He knew that clock-tower- Wyoming had always talked about how much he loved it- and had been able to see it from the apartment when he sat on the roof at night stargazing. He wasn't far from home then! Too weak and tired to cheer with this realization, Wash looked to his left, immediately finding an old man sitting in a wooden chair beside him. The old man had short, greying hair, along with a long, greying beard. He wore glasses as he read from a book that he held gently in his hands.

"Ah, you're awake." The old man suddenly commented, making Wash nearly jump, had he not been so worn out. "You wouldn't believe my surprise, when I found in my store's closet- with a gun no less! You scared me good, you did!"

"Who... who are you?" Wash coughed out, squinting at the old man. He was so confused, until it struck him- the closet! He remembered it better now, remembered the stairs and the car crash and the locked door. "I can explain! Please, you have to understand, I-"

Wash stopped as the old man held up a hand, silencing the panicking Freelancer. "Enough with that. You think I didn't catch on when those ONI agents came knocking at my door, asking if I'd seen a blond man in his early twenties in my restaurant? You must have done something to piss those Dino hunters off. But don't you worry, they're long gone now."

Wash sighed, relieved. "Now, onto the matter at hand..." The old man announced, making Wash shiver worriedly. "Just why were you running from those agents, hm? You egg their vehicles? Start a rebellion? You seem like the Rebel type, once you learn what those ONI folk do to their SPARTANS. I listen to Hunt The Truth-" He nodded towards his computer, an older model on a desk in the far corner of the room. "-If you haven't noticed. That Benjamin sure knows how to start a revolution, hm?"

"That's... nice." Washington muttered, feeling awkward. "But where exactly am I right now? How long was I unconscious?"

"Fifty minutes, give or take." The old man decided, nodding to himself in confirmation. "And we're right above the pizzeria. I live up here, but I was taking out the trash when you must've hid in my janitor's closet."

"That's... that's good." Wash muttered, more to himself than to the man. "Do you have any sort of communicator? I need to warn my friend! He wasn't home when those ONI agents came and-" He stopped, staring off into space as this realization stunned him. "... My friend, he wasn't... he wasn't home. He didn't even leave a note, he just wasn't... he wasn't home." He started to get up, but the old man held a hand to his chest, keeping him on the bed.

"Who wasn't home? Son, was someone there with you?" The old man questioned, sounding a bit scared for the young outlaw. "Did those ONI agents nab him while you were getting away?"

"No, he... he must've known." Washington stared at his hands, stained with dried, dirty blood, more from himself than from the two men he'd shot. "Dear God, he must've known they were coming!" He launched up and out of the bed, before the old man could stop him, and immediately, his legs gave out, his left ankle broken from the car crash. He hadn't noticed because of the adrenaline rush. "That fucking traitor!" He shouted, through clenched teeth as he held his ankle, shaking violently. "That piece of shit! He set me up! He wanted them to take me away! He was never saving me, he was digging me a deeper grave!"

"Kid!" The old man called, coming to crouch in front of the downed Freelancer. "What are you talking about? Someone set you up? You need to calm down, alright? Just calm down!" He stood up, realizing it wasn't working, and went to the bed's nightstand, where a clothe with chloroform on it was waiting. He had expected this sort of reaction... "Just calm down, kid. Okay?" He whispered, crouching down with the clothe in hand as he put his other hand on Wash's chest, keeping him on the floor.

"No! Let go of me!" Washington screamed, kicking and fighting uselessly as he tried in vain to escape from the old man, but he was too weak from his injuries and fatigue. "I'm gonna kill that motherfuck-" He was cut off, the cloth muffling him before he slowly went still, fainting as the chloroform took over.

* * *

**End of Part 2**

**To Be Continued**

**A/N: This was meant to be in only two parts, but I really wanna have the Recovery One stuff in this fic since it's about what happened BEFORE the BGC bits in Secretive. Hope you enjoyed it! The next part will be out soon (Hopefully)! Also, "Hunt The Truth" is an actual podcast on Tumblr that's made by the creators of Halo to take place in that universe. I thought referencing it might be fun, so I did! So if you're a Halo fan or even just a fan of conspiracy theories, Hunt The Truth is a great podcast to listen to. It's on Tumblr at .com! Please R&amp;R!  
**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	7. Scruba Dub Dub

**Bow Chicka Bow Wow**

**Title: Scruba Dub Dub**

**Pairing: Flyomington (Agent Florida/Agent Wyoming/Agent Washington)**

**Warning(s): Threesomes, M/M/M Sex, M/M Sex, Blowjobs, Semi-Public Sex, Public Sex, Hair-Pulling, Shower Sex, BDSM Play, BDSM, BDSM Undertones, Consensual, Etc.**

**Description: It was York's stupid comment that started this whole mess. "Don't drop the soap, Wash!" Yeah, this was all his fault. If he hadn't said it, then Wash wouldn't have dropped it, and THIS certainly wouldn't have happened...**

**A/N: (Someone requested Flyomington on Tumblr). A FLYOMINGTON REQUEST!? Well, who am I to deny you such a wonderful ship? WARNING: This fic contains M/M/M sexual content. If you're uncomfortable with this, I can make an alternate fic where it only suggests that they fucked, but skips that scene entirely. Sorry it's not very long, but I hope it suffices nonetheless!**

* * *

"Don't drop the soap, Wash!" York says as he walks towards the exit of the locker-room, slapping the rookie heavily on the back as he passes by.

"Fuck off," Washington growls it out, his voice full malice as he unties his shoes and kicks them off. "You think I wanna shower at two in the fucking morning!? If it weren't for the lousy schedules on this ship..."

"Oh? Is Agent Washington actually insulting the Director's flawless schedule?" South asks, joining in on bagging on Wash. "Wow, Washy. What would the Director say if he heard you saying such awful things?"

Washington has half a mind to tell them both that the Director would agree, because he probably actually would, considering how many times he's been screwed over by the ship's scheduling team. He doesn't in the end though, shaking his head as he looks away, huffing childishly under his breath. He hates showering at night, mainly because it's so quiet on the ship. Not to mention... that's when Florida and Wyoming tend to 'sneak about' the MOI, getting into God knows what mischief. York thinks they have sex in the Director's office. Wash hopes to God he's wrong.

"It won't be so bad, Wash," North assures the other blond, ruffling Wash's hair as he dresses himself in his pajamas. "Just wash up quick and get to bed, okay? I'm sure Florida and Wyoming will leave ya be."

"Yeah right... you guys suck, ya know that?" He doesn't mean it, of course, but Wash has been acting salty all day since he learned he would have to shower in the dead of night.

"Have fun, Wash. Call me if ya don't die." South orders, leaving the locker-room with York and North hot on her tails.

Washington lets out a sigh of relief once they're gone, yawning loudly before he begins unbuttoning his jeans and tugging them off, along with his boxers. After that he throws his hoodie off, his T-shirt going with it, and steps into the showers. At the very least, he doesn't have to share a shower-head with anyone. Wash perks up at that thought, beginning to loosen up as he turns on the last shower-head in the room, allowing the warm spray of water to wash over him, relaxing his muscles as he shuts his eyes, trying to clear his head of all his worries. He stops, however, hand reaching for the soap-bar, when the locker-room doors open from across the room.

He listens carefully, ready to run for it in-case one of the other Freelancers. Thankfully, that's not the case as Wash hear unarmored feet walk into the locker-rooms, two pairs of feet if he's hearing them correctly. Wash stays quiet, for whatever reason, and listens as the two strangers in the locker-room start undressing, the sounds of zippers unzipping and shoes being kicked off a good indicator. Wash blushes, hoping against hope that it's not two crewmen or Freelancers trying to get it on. After a few more minutes of shuffling, the footsteps come into the shower room. Wash looks away, hoping that they'll get the idea that he doesn't wanna talk.

The unnamed strangers ignore Wash as the Freelancer tries to focus on showering and leaving as fast as possible. However, as he goes for the soap-bar, it slips out of his grip and splashes onto the floor, slipping down to the doorway of the shower room. "Shit!" He shouts, blindly running after it, forgetting about the two strangers in the shower with him.

Wash remembers them, however, as he finally crouches down and catches the bar, going beet red all over as his hand brushes over a foot. He can feel eyes on him, and God, what a sight he must make right now. Washington shivers with dread, not knowing what to say. An apology? Maybe. If he had only been thinking before he tried to go after the stupid soap! They probably got an eyeful of his dick while he ran after it, too. As Wash kept thinking about it, he became more and more embarrassed, until he was convinced that he would soon melt into a puddle of sticky shame.

"Aw, would ya look at that," An all too familiar voice suddenly coos from above Wash, making the Freelancer's heart skip a beat. "Looks like Agent Washington dropped the soap. How cute."

Wash swallows, shivering as he feels all sorts of wrong. How many times has a scene similar to this gone through his head? There's a reason other than nervousness that's been having Wash avoid Florida and Wyoming; he can't get them out of his head. They're always together, and anytime Wash sees them, their visors or eyes are pointed towards him, as if judging or considering him. For what, Washington doesn't know. Part of wants to know, while the other part is convinced that it's going to be horrible and would rather not. Just as Wash starts coming up with escape plans, a hand sudden rests on his head, making him going terrifyingly still.

"It _is _a bit endearing..." Wyoming adds, petting Wash's hair as the blond Freelancer stays crouched on the floor. "Look at him, Butch, he's scared witless. You frighten damn near everyone."

"Oh, I do not!" Florida insists, hand grasping Washington's chin almost gently, fingers firm and wet from the shower still going above them. "Look up for me, David. I want to see your face."

And Wash does, after a moment. Florida is darker than most of the other Freelancers, claiming to be Native American. He has dark, coiled black hair that goes far below his ass, and dark, dark brown eyes that send shivers down Washington's spine. Wyoming looks a bit more humble, with hazel brown eyes, sleek black hair, and that handlebar mustache that admittingly makes Wash laugh whenever he twirls it in thought. Wash blushes, realizing what he's doing. Goddamn his Dad for hiring so many attractive fucking people to be Freelancers, especially Wyoming and Florida. Seriously, how can special ops agents be THAT good looking?

"Are you scared?" It's said with such hardness and seriousness that it drops Wash out of his stupor, eyes going back up to Florida's.

"No," Washington is being one hundred percent honest right now. He's not afraid; he's had sex before and he's daydreamed about doing it with them enough times not be scared of them. "I'm not afraid."

"Good," Wyoming says, fingers scratching lightly at Wash's scalp as he moves back a step, admiring the bird's eye view. "Do you want to? You can say no, and we'll stop."

Wash is glad they asked, but he smiles as he replies this time. "No, I... I want this. I want to do this."

Florida nods his head, helping Wash to his feet, the blond slipping and falling against the shorter Freelancer, accidentally pinning him against the wall. "This is new," Florida practically purrs, eyebrows raising as he smirks at Wash, not even hiding it as he looks him over, up and down. "I have to say, I sort of like it, but maybe you'd prefer... this?" In no time flat, he spins them around, until he's pinning Wash against the shower wall. "Yeah, this is much better... Reggie, you know what to do. Say 'Red' if you want us to stop, David. Okay?"

"Y-Yeah... oh _fuck_." Wash bites his lip, Wyoming crouching in-between his legs to swallow him whole, unused to the feel of his cock surrounded like this. He thrusts without warning, whining in earnest at the strange yet pleasant feelings in the pit of his stomach and all around his cock. "Oh my _Goooooood_... holy fuck!"

"You like that, David?" Florida chuckles, smirking as he grabs Wash by the scruff of his neck, pulling his head in closer. "I think you'll like this, too." He kisses him in earnest, like he's worried that if he stops, he'll never get to kiss Washington again.

"You're getting him real worked up, Butch," Wyoming warns, taking a moment to stop and breathe, much to Wash's irritation. "You want either of us inside of you when you come, lad?"

"I-I-" Wash almost chokes on his own tongue, squirming as he misses the sensation of Wyoming's mouth around his cock. "I... I want mouth. Please." He adds the last part, hoping to please the older men.

"How polite." Florida mutters, starting to leave hickies down Wash's neck and upper chest as Wyoming deep-throats Wash, making the much younger Freelancer almost scream as he nears his climax. "Good manners should be encouraged, don't you agree, Reggie?"

Wyoming doesn't respond, not that he's really expected to as he finishes Wash off. Wash goes completely limp as he ride it out in Wyoming's mouth, cumming in waves as Florida holds him up, allowing him to lean his head against his chest. "That was... the best sex... I've ever had..." Wash mumbles, once he's coherent enough to speak.

"The best sex you've ever had? Did you hear that, Butch?" Wyoming asks, exasperated as he shares a look with Florida, who grins back at him. "The best sex he's ever had, and he didn't even have a cock up his arse!" He smirks up at Wash, licking a bit of cum off his lower lip. "Lad, we'll show you what the best sex you've ever had really is."

Washington gulps, but can't help but smile as Wyoming and Florida help him wash up and get dressed, talking him into crashing with Florida and Wyoming in their room for the night. In the morning, Wash has half a mind to brag about it, but then again...

Why would anyone else need to know but him?

* * *

**A/N: A bit of underlined Carwash Siblings, hope ya don't mind. Please R&amp;R!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	8. Crying Lightning (RvB Brothel AU)

**Bow Chicka Bow Wow**

**Title: Crying Lightning**

**AU: RvB Brothel AU**

**Pairing(s): Agent Texas/Leonard Church**

**Warning(s): Prostitution, F/M Sexual Scenes, Astraphobia (Fear of Lightning), Distraction Sex, FemDom, Sub/Dom Play, Teasing, Fear, Intense Astraphobia, etc.**

**Description: RvB Brothel AU. Pre-Tex getting hired at the brothel. Allison has a fear of lightning. Allison is Alpha's favorite client at Blood Gulch. They find a way to make each other comfortable while a thunderstorm passes over the city.  
**

**A/N: A small thing from a Brothel AU I'm working on, which I'll give more details for later. In other news, please review and tell me if you liked this fic and are interested in this AU! post/104886472384/red-vs-blue-brothelporn-star-au-okay-so-while  
**

* * *

The lights are on, just how Allison likes them, giving Alpha enough light to see her face, all scrunched up and red as he distracts her. It's a rainy Sunday night, and the storm outside is Godawful, with promises of possible flooding downtown. But they're not downtown, or else Allison would be more freaked out right now. She's Tex in here, Alpha tells himself, letting the blonde woman roll them over, placing herself on top. He's been fingering her for the last half-hour, slow and steady, to keep her awake yet out of that moment, away from the storm. But now, apparently, it's not enough. Tex needs more from him. Alpha is more than willing to deliver.

Alpha is fast in bed, but Tex is faster. He is skilled, but she is more skilled. She's everything Alpha's ever wanted, and he refuses to let her down, not while she's awake and in the moment and- he kisses her, trying to take away those droplets of fear from her eyes, to take her away from the storm outside and into the one they've been brewing in the bedroom all night. Alpha's wanted this all night, been ready to fuck her, but he lets Tex decide what to do next. As expected, Tex grabs the favored strap-on she always brings, the black one she bought at an adult video store three months ago. Personally, Alpha prefers newer shit, but if this is what Tex needs, he's willing to provide for her.

She puts it on, and without warning, shoves her fingers in Alpha's mouth. He takes them generously, knowing this'll be his only lubricant, and lets her mouth-fuck him long and hard. Her middle finger occasionally goes far enough down his throat to tease his gag-reflex, which twitches and makes him gag in surprise. He wants to stop- almost- but he doesn't. He lets her do this, lets her do what she wants, because it's better than being in the moment and hearing that goddamn storm, hearing that Satanist rain pounding against the glass of the windows. It's so much better, Alpha thinks, as her fingers leave his mouth, a trail of saliva stringing behind until it breaks from the distance.

Then it's Tex whose fingering him, and Alpha moans so loud, not knowing deep inside why he gets so turned on by this- he's always preferred being the Alpha, as his name suggests, but with Tex... those rules have never applied to Tex. She was always that one girl, the one across the bar, sipping from a glass of rye, a tiny slice of apple pie in front of her, untouched for reasons he'll never know. She had held him not ten minutes after that against a wall in the backroom, giving him a hand-job while simultaneously kissing him, her teeth more involved than her lips 70% of the time. Tex was a drug, and Alpha had gotten so addicted so damn fast. There had been nothing that could get in his way, resulting in his current situation.

"Stay focused," Tex's voice is a low, husky note in the room, and Alpha whines in earnest as her index finger brushes against his prostate. She had added two more fingers when he hadn't been focused. "God, Leo... you're such a slut."

There's no point in Alpha responding, since it'll get him nowhere. He doesn't comment on being called by his first name. He doesn't comment on being called a slut. He just doesn't. Instead, he enjoys the feeling of Tex beginning to nibble at his neck, making him move his head up more to give her further access. Without missing a beat, Tex pulls back, giving Alpha a devious look, her eyes glazed over to make her blue eyes twinkle from the light of the lamp. She's so beautiful, such a rare occurrence for most prostitutes like Alpha. He usually gets awkward and scared college punks, but Tex... God, she's nothing like that. She's courageous, amazing in bed, and not to mention stunning. Yep, Alpha is one lucky motherfucker.

The strap-on is inserted when Alpha is lost in his thoughts, and he bucks instinctively, making Tex moan at the feeling. It must be some weird two-way one, meaning the other end is in Tex's vagina. Moaning louder than her, Alpha runs his hands up and down Tex's back, clawing at the sweaty skin below his palms. She groans, back arching at the feeling of his nails digging into her skin, dampening as the sweat coats them. He's close to cumming, and Alpha makes this very clear as he let's out a long, exaggerated moan. Tex gets the message. In moments, she's pounding into him faster and harder, letting out a curse as she cums first, her vagina's folds slick and almost dripping as she finishes with the strap-on inside her.

Alpha follows suit, stifling his moan into his pillow as he cries out and cums all over the mattress, gritting his teeth in pleasure. He goes still afterwards, hot and sticky and fatigued. Tex slowly pulls out of him, making Alpha groan in irritation, before she undoes the strap-on and tosses it aside, the hard plastic landing with a 'thunk' onto the carpeted floor. She lies down beside Alpha, looking equally as tired as her partner. A thunderclap sounds from outside. Tex shudders violently at the sound, and automatically Alpha is rolling onto his side and putting his arms around the short woman, hugging her to himself as he sighs, letting the small blonde bury her face into his neck as she clutches him almost violently, arms tight around his plump middle.

"You alright?" Alpha asks, after a few seconds without any thunder passes by. When Tex nods, he smiles, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Good. I know how you get with fucking lightning."

"I don't wanna talk about it," Tex whispers into his neck, trying to hide the fear from her voice. "Can we just... rest?"

"I'm at your disposal, ma'am," Alpha promises, smirking as Tex pinches him for being so formal. There's no point in formalities with her anymore; she and her friends are regulars around here after all. "But yeah, we can sleep. Wake me if you need another round, 'kay?" Tex nods again, and quickly, Alpha reaches over her and turns off the lamp, closing his eyes and holding her close as darkness fills the room.

In the morning, they will pretend that nothing ever happened and that Texas wasn't afraid, but that won't keep Alpha from smiling fondly at breakfast when Prophecy asks how his night was.

* * *

**A/N: So, I hope you liked this fic. Please leave me your comments/reviews and tell me what you think! Please R&amp;R!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


	9. Soft Spot

**Bow Chicka Bow Wow**

**Title: Soft Spot  
**

**Pairing: ******Agent Washington/Agent Maine | The Meta, **Agent Washington/Frank "Doc" DuFresne  
**

**Warning(s): Thrashing, Spanking, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Harsh Spanking, Power Reversal, Embarrassment, Anxiety, Non-Consensual Spanking of an Adult, Hurt/Comfort, Maternal Instincts, Overprotective Reactions, Social Anxiety, BDSM, Aftercare, Etc.**

**Description: Set directly after Simmons gets rescued and abandons Doc in Season 8. After Epsilon gets away, the Meta takes Agent Washington in hand, and Doc discovers that he may or may not have a soft spot for the blond Freelancer.  
**

**A/N: I have nothing to say for myself. Please R&amp;R!**

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Doc watched with wide eyes as Simmons, Sarge, and Grif all took off, leaving the poor medic in the hands of Agent Washington and the Meta. As said kidnappers took off after them, Doc couldn't help but notice the heavy limp Wash was struggling to hide. Had Washington gotten hurt? Well, Doc _had_ heard an explosion before he had been slammed into the wall. He wondered silently if the Freelancer would be okay, after all, he may've been kidnapped by the Meta and Wash, but he was still a pacifist who believed highly in protecting others, seeing little need in petty revenge.

"_WASHINGTON_!"

The purple medic flinched violently at the Epsilon Unit's scream, making his arms ache from having been jerked so hard. Waiting for anymore noises, Doc soon watched the Meta walk back into view near a rock in front of the base, Washington draped like a rag-doll over his shoulder. The short grey and yellow dressed soldier was squirming angrily, kicking and spitting like a cat before the Meta sat down with Wash in tow on the large, yet flat rock. Wash squirmed, trying to resist as the Meta started pulling off the younger Agent's armor. What in the world was the Meta _doing_?

"Meta!" Washington yelled, kicking at the Goliath of a man as his chest armor was released. "What the fuck are you _doing_!? You better let me go, or so help me _God_, I will _murder_ _you_!"

The Meta ignored the squirming man, easily getting the rest of his armor off until there was only his under-suit leftover. Flinching, Wash tried to squirm away, only for the Meta to growl something dangerously low under his breath. "Wait, _what_!? What do you mean by _that_?" Wash screeched, but he went ignored.

Doc stared, eyes wide as he watched the Meta pull Wash over his lap, starting to unzip the back of his under-suit. _Oh_. So _that_ was what he was doing. Washington seemed to catch on as well, because his eyes went wide in shock. "Meta, are you _serious_!? Stop that, get off of me! I'm... I'm too _old_ for that!" He explained, kicking furiously in vain. "Come on, we can talk about this!"

The Meta ignored Washington again, finally forcing off the under-suit to reveal Wash's pale legs, only a pair of military grade white boxers and a too-big grey T-shirt covering his body. Wash went limp, still looking horrified by what the Meta was about to unleash on his sorry ass. "Um... Wash?" Doc spoke up, giving the Freelancer an almost pitying look. At the very least, this was less horrible than watching Wash getting kicked the shit out of. "Has the Meta ever done this... _before_?"

"_Uh_..." Wash trailed off, yelping as the Meta unceremoniously tugged off his boxers. "No... no he _hasn't_..."

And so it started. The Meta wasn't the least bit gentle as he started royally paddling Washington's ass, his own armored hand cracking down on Wash's bottom. At the first slap, Wash yelped, but afterwards he tried to keep up a stony silence, head hung low after the Meta had removed his helmet. The spanks were fast and Wash was unable to prepare himself for any of them, forcing him to just go limp and take it, though he sure as fuck wasn't pleased with it. Doc flinched along with Wash at each spank, empathy fueling his compassion for the Freelancer.

As the spanking picked up, the Meta aimed more at Wash's thighs, making the Freelancer start to squirm more, the pain and sting catching up with him in mere minutes. Soon enough, Washington could feel traitorous tears rolling down his cheeks, making him blush even redder from embarrassment. He wasn't a child, he told himself, but dammit, the Meta was doing a good job of making him feel and look like one. He squeaked loudly as another slap landed on his sit-spot, making the blond buck harshly off the Meta's lap, only to be pulled back on and spanked further.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the Meta stopped, adjusting Wash to sit up on his lap, head still hung in both embarrassment and disgust with himself. Doc watched intently as the Meta seemed to communicate in silence with his fellow Freelancer, his growls low and impossible for Doc to translate. Wash was still on the Meta's lap, leaning his head on the other man's shoulder, nodding his head or shaking it in response to the Meta's rumbles. After awhile, the Meta tugged up Wash's boxers on him (Doc blushed when he realized he had seen Wash's privates beforehand) and carried him back to Blue Base, lying him down to rest on the roof.

While the Meta went off to collect Washington's armor and give the blond some space, Doc stared intently at Wash, who looked uncomfortable in front of Doc after what had happened. "So... how you feeling?" Doc asked, after a long while.

Wash seemed to hesitate, before shrugging, looking pointedly away from Doc. "Alright, I guess... please don't ever tell anyone about that."

Doc nodded, humming in thought. "Of course. Has that ever, like, happened before though?"

Wash shook his head. "Naw. Actually, I was shocked when he, well... you know," He squirmed in place, uncomfortable with sitting down. In the end, he rolled over onto his stomach, mindful of his punished ass. "I guess he just got mad at me for being careless when going after Epsilon."

"At least he's looking out for you," Doc offered, smiling reassuringly at Wash from under his helmet, even if he couldn't see it. "And, I mean, it's not that bad, compared to most other forms of discipline."

Wash blushed, ducking his head. "Can we just... stop talking about this?" He requested bashfully. When Doc nodded, he sighed, yawning as he curled on his side, tired out from the spanking the Meta had given him and his encounter with the Reds.

Before long, Agent Washington was fast asleep. Doc watched him, for a long period of time, before sighing to himself. Here he was, kidnapped and trapped by two mentally unstable Freelancers, yet he was already starting to feel protective over one of them. Doc supposed it had been bound to happen- he had always had a thing for cute blonds- but that definitely didn't make him feel any better about it. Once the Meta returned, the Goliath of a Freelancer laid a blanket over Wash and let him sleep in peace. Doc groaned internally at the adorable sight. Damn him for having a soft spot for small, cute blonds...

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**A/N: A short little thing, but I enjoyed writing it. I'm so sorry, it's just... there's such a huge lack of spanking in RvB fandom fanfictions, and honestly that's a shame, since it's one of my biggest kinks. Please R&amp;R!**

**~CabooseHeart.**


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